THE 

WILLIAM  R.  PERKINS 

LIBRARY 

OF 

DUKE  UNIVERSITY 


Rare  Books 


THE 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE, 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS, 

BY 
THOMAS  CAMPBELL, 

Author  of  "  Gertrude  of  Wyoming","  &c.  &c, 


BOSTOJV. 

PRINTED    BY    JOSHUA    BELCHER. 
1811. 


L 


THE 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 


PART  I. 


ANALYSIS  OF  PARI*  I. 

THE  Poem  opens  with  a  comparison  between  the  beaury  of  re- 
mote objects  in  a  landscape,  and  those  ideal  scenes  of  felicity  which 
the  imagination  delights  to  contemplate  ...the  influence  of  anticipation 
upon  the  other  passions  is  next  delineated... .an  allusion  is  made  to  the 
well  known  fiction  in  pagan  tradition,  that,  when  all  the  guardian  de- 
ities of  mankind  abandoned  the  world,  Hope  alone  was  left  behind.... 
the  consolations  of  this  passion  in  situations  of  danger  and  distress.... 
the  seaman  on  his  midnight  watch....the  soldier  marching  into  bat- 
tle., .allusion  to  the  interesting  adventures  of  Byron. 

The  inspiration  of  Hope,  as  it  actuates  the  efforts  of  genius,  whether 
in  the  department  of  science  or  of  taste...  domestic  felicity,  how  inti- 
mately corme-tedwiih  views  of  future  happiness. ...picture  of  a  mother 
watching  her  infant  when  asleep...  pictures  of  the  prisoner,  the  mani- 
ac, and  the  wanderer. 

From  the  consolations  of  individual  misery,  a  transition  is  made  to 
prospects  of  political  improvement  in  the  future  state  of  society.. ..the 
wide  field  that  is  yet  open  for  the  progress  of  humanizing  arts  among 
uncivilized  nations.. ..from  these  views  of  amelioration  of  sociery,  and 
the  extension  of  liberty  and  truth  over  despotic  and  barbarous  coun- 
tries, by  a  melancholy  contrast  of  ideas  we  are  led  to  reflect  upon  the 
hard  fate  of  a  brave  people  recently  conspicuous  in  their  struggles  for 
independence  .  .description  of  the  capture  of  Warsaw,  of  the  last 
contest  of  the  oppressors  and  the  oppressed,  and  the  massacre  of  the 
Polish  patriots  at  the  bridge  of  Prague.. ..apostrophe  to  the-  self-inter. 
ested enemies  of  human  improvement.. ..the  wrongs  of  Africa,. ..the 
barbarous  policy  of  Europeans  in  India...  prophecy  in  the  Hindoo 
mythology  of  the  expected  descent  of  the  Deity,  *<i  redress  the  mise- 
ries of  their  race,  and  to  take  vengeance  on  the  violators  of  justice  and 
mercy. 

1* 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 


PART  I. 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heav'n's  aerial  bow- 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below^ 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sun-bright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky  i 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ?— 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 

Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promis'd  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way  ; 


Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discover'd  scene 
More  pleasing-  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been  ; 
And  every  form,  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 

What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptur'd  eye 
To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 
Can  Wisdom  lend,  with  all  her  heav'nly  power, 
The  pledge  of  joy's  anticipated  hour  ? 
Ah,  no !   she  darkly  sees  the  fate  of  man — 
Her  dim  horizon  bounded  to  a  span  ; 
Or,  if  she  hold  an  image  to  the  view, 
'Tis  nature  pictured  too  severely  true. 

With  thee,  sweet  Hope  !  resides  the  heav'nly  lights 
That  pours  remotest  rapture  on  the  sight : 
Thine  is  the  charm  of  life's  bewilder'd  way, 
That  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play  : 
WTak'd  by  thy  touch,  I  see  the  sister  band, 
On  tiptoe  watching,  start  at  thy  command, 
And  fly  where'er  thy  mandate  bids  them  steer, 
To  Pleasure's  path,  or  Glory's  bright  career. 


Primeval  Hope,  the  Aonian  Muses  say, 
When  Man  and  Nature  mourn'd  their  first  decay  ; 
When  every  form  of  death,  and  every  woe, 
Shot  from  malignant  stars  to  earth  below ; 
When  Murder  bar'd  his  arm,  and  rampant  War 
Yok'd  the  red  dragons  of  her  iron  car  ; 
When  Peace  and  Mercy,  banish'd  from  the  plain, 
Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heav'n  again ; 
All,  all  forsook  the  friendless  guilty  mind, 
But  Hope,  the  charmer,  linger'd  still  behind. 

Thus,  while  Elijah's  burning  wheels  prepare 
From  Carmel's  height  to  sweep  the  fields  of  air, 
The  prophet's  mantle,  ere  his  flight  began, 
Dropp'd  on  the  world — a  sacred  gift  to  man. 

Auspicious  Hope  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grow 
Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  woe  : 
Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour 
The  way-worn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  summer  bower  ; 
There,  as  the  wild-bee  murmurs  on  the  wing, 
What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid  spirits  bring 


10 


What  viewless  forms  th'  JEolian  organ  play, 

And  sweep  the  furrow'd  lines  of  anxious  thought  away! 

Angel  of  life  !  thy  glittering-  wings  explore 
Earth's  loneliest  bounds,  and  Ocean's  wildest  shore 
Lo  !  to  the  wint'ry  winds  the  pilot  yields 
His  bark  careering  o'er  unfathom'd  fields  ; 
Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 
"Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  western  star, 
With  meteor  standard  to  the  winds  unfurl'd. 
Looks  from  his  throne  of  clouds  o'er  half  the  world. 

Now  far  he  sweeps,  where  scarce  a  summer  smiles; 
On  Behring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  isles  ; 
Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blow, 
From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow ; 
And  waft,  across  the  waves'  tumultuous  roar, 
The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore. 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  storm, 
Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  manly  form ! 
Hocks,  waves,  and  winds,  the  shatter'd  bark  delav  . 
Thy  heart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away 


n 


But  Hope  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep, 
\nd  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep. 
Swift  as  yon  streamer  lights  the  starry  pole, 
Her  visions  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul : 
His  native  hills  that  rise  in  happier  climes, 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times, 
His  cottage-home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail, 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broom  wood-blossom'd  vale, 
Rash  on  his  thought ;  he  swreeps  before  the  wind, 
Treads  the  lov'd  shore  he  sigh'd  to  leave  behind  ; 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  flies  as  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace  ; 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear> 
And  clasps,  with  many  a  sigh,  his  children  dear  ! 
While,  long  neglected,  but  at  length  caress'd, 
His  faithful  dog  salutes  the  smiling  guest, 
Points  to  the  master's  eyes  (where'er  they  roam) 
His  wistful  face,  and  whines  a  welcome  home. 

Friend  of  the  brave  i  in  peril's  darkest  hour, 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power  ; 
To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields, 
On  stormy  floods,  and  carnage-cover'd  fields. 


12 


When  front  to  front  the  banner'd  hosts  combiner 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line  ; 
When  all  is  still  on  Death's  devoted  soil, 
The  march-worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil ; 
As  ring's  his  glittering  tube,  he  lifts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow,  and  spirit-speaking  eye, 
Hails  in  his  heart  the  triumph  yet  to  come, 
And  hears  thy  stormy  music  in  the  drum. 

And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore.—  1 
In  horrid  climes,  where  Chiloe's  tempests  sweep 
Tumultuous  murmurs  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
'Twas  his  to  mourn  misfortune's  rudest  shock, 
Scourg'd  by  the  winds,  and  cradled  on  the  rock, 
To  wake  each  joyless  morn,  and  search  again 
The  famish'd  haunts  of  solitary  men, 
Whose  race,  unyielding  as  their  native  storm, 
Knows  not  a  trace  of  Nature  but  the  form  .; 
Yet,  at  thy  call,  the  hardy  tar  pursued, 
Pale,  but  intrepid,  sad,  but  unsubdued, 
Pierc'd  the  deep  woods,  and,  hailing  from  afar 
The  moon*a  pule  planet  and  the  northern  s\ 


Paus'd  at  each  dreary  cry,  unheard  before, 
Hyaenas  in  the  wild,  and  mermaids  on  the  shore  ; 
Till,  led  by  thee  o'er  many  a  cliff  sublime, 
lie  found  a  warmer  world,  a  milder  clime, 
A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend, 
Peace  and  repose,  a  Briton  and  a  friend  ! 2 

Congenial  Hope  !  thy  passion-kindling-  power, 
How  bright,  how  strong,  in  youth's  untroubled  hour  ! 
On  yon  proud  height,  with  Genius  hand  in  hand, 
I  see  thee  light,  and  wave  thy  golden  wand. 

"  Go,  Child  of  Heaven !  (thy  winged  words  proclaim) 
5Tis  thine  to  search  the  boundless  fields  of  fame  ! 
Lo  !  Newton,  priest  of  Nature,  shines  afar, 
Scans  the  wide  world,  and  numbers  every  star ! 
Wilt  thou,  with  him,  mysterious  rites  apply, 
And  watch  the  shrine  with  wonder-beaming  eye  ? 
Yes,  thou  shalt  mark,  with  magic  art  profound, 
The  speed  of  light,  the  circling  march  of  sound  ; 
Yv'ith  Franklin,  gi  asp  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heaven  another  string,  a 
2 


-4 


;c  The  Swedish  sage  admires,  in  yonder  bow'rs,* 
His  winged  insects,  and  his  rosy  flow'rs  ; 
Calls  from  their  woodland  haunts  the  savage  train 
With  sounding  horn,  and  counts  them  on  the  plain- 
So  once,  at  Heav'n's  command,  the  wand'rers  came 
To  Eden's  shade,  and  heard  their  various  name. 

"  Far  from  the  world,  in  yon  sequester'd  clime, 
Slow  pass  the  sons  of  wisdom,  more  sublime  ; 
Calm  as  the  fields  of  Heav'n,  his  sapient  eye 
The  lov'd  Athenian  lifts  to  realms  on  high  ; 
Admiring  Plato,  on  his  spotless  page, 
Stamps  the  bright  dictates  of  the  father  sage  : 
*  Shall  nature  bound  to  earth's  diurnal  span 
'■  The  fire  of  God,  th'  immortal  soul  of  man  "' 

"Turn,  Child  of  Heav'n,  thy  rapture -lightened  eye 
To  Wisdom's  walks, — the  sacred  Nine  are  nigh : 
Hark  !  from  bright  spires  that  gild  the  Delphian  heigh' 
From  streams  that  wander  in  eternal  light, 
Rang'd  on  their  hill,  Harmcnia's  daughters  swell 
The  mingling  tones  of  horn,  ami  harp,  and  shell  r 


IS 


Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow, 5 
And  Pythia's  awful  organ  peals  below. 

"BelovMof  Heav'n  !  the  smiling-  Muse  shall  shed 
Her  moonlight  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head ; 
Shall  swell  thy  heart  to  rapture  unconfin'd, 
And  breathe  a  holy  madness  o'er  thy  mind. 
I  see  thee  roam  her  guardian  pow'r  beneath, 
And  talk  with  spirits  on  the  midnight  heath  ; 
Inquire  of  guilty  wand'rers  whence  they  came, 
And  ask  each  blood-stain'd  form  his  earthly  name, 
Then  weave  in  rapid  verse  the  deeds  they  tell, 
And  read  the  trembling  world  the  tales  of  hell, 

"  When  Yenus,  thron'd  in  clouds  of  rosy  hue, 
Flings  from  her  golden  urn  the  vesper  dew, 
And  bids  fond  man  her  glimmering  noon  employ, 
Sacred  to  love  and  walks  of  tender  joy  ; 
A  milder  mood  the  goddess  shall  fecal, 
And  soft  as  dew  thy  tones  of  music  fall ; 
While  Beauty's  deeply-pictur'd  smiles  impart 
A  pang  more  dear  than  pleasure  to  the  heart— 


15 


Warm  as  thy  sighs  shall  flow  the  Lesbian  strain, 
And  plead  in  Beauty's  ear,  nor  plead  in  vain. 

"  Or  wilt  thou  Orphean  hymns  more  sacred  deem, 
And  steep  thy  song  in  Mercy's  mellow  stream  ; 
To  pensive  drops  the  radiant  eye  beguile — 
For  Beauty's  tears  are  lovelier  than  her  smile  ; — 
On  Nature's  throbbing  anguish  pour  relief, 
And  teach  impassion'd  souls  the  joy  of  grief? 

"  Yes  ;  to  thy  tongue  shall  seraph  words  be  giv'n, 
And  pow'r  on  earth  to  plead  the  cause  of  heav'n : 
The  proud,  the  cold,  untroubled  heart  of  stone, 
That  never  mus'd  on  sorrow  but  its  own, 
Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command, 
Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand.6 
The  living  lumber  of  his  kindred  earth, 
Charm'd  into  soul,  receives  a  second  birth  ; 
Feels  thy  dread  pow'r  another  heart  afford, 
Whose  passion-touch'd  harmonious  strings  accord 
True  as  the  circling  spheres  to  Nature's  plan  ; 
And  man, the  brother  lives  the  friend  of  man! 


17 


"  Bright  as  the  pillow  rose  at  Heav'n's  command, 
When  Israel  march'd  along-  the  desert  land, 
Blaz'd  through  the  night  on  lonely  wilds  afar, 
And  told  the  path — a  never- setting  star  : 
So,  heav'nly  Genius,  in  thy  course  divine, 
Hope  is  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever  thine." 

Propitious  Pow'r  !  when  rankling  cares  annoy 
The  sacred  home  of  Hymeneal]  joy  ; 
When  doom'd  to  Poverty's  sequester'd  dell, 
The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell, 
Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame, 
Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the  same- 
Oh  there,  prophetic  Hope !  thy  smile  bestow, 
And  chase  the  pangs  that  worth  should  never  know. 
There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 
To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more, 
Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 
Their  father's  wrongs,  and  shield  his  later  age. 
What  though  for  him  no  Hybla  sweets  distil, 
Nor  bloomy  vines  wave  purple  on  the  hill ; 
Tell,  that  when  silent  years  have  pass'd  away, 
That  when  his  eyes  grow  dim,  his  tresses  grej . 
2* 


16 


These  busy  hands  a  lovelier  cot  shall  build, 
And  deck  with  fairer  flow'rs  his  little  field, 
And  call  from  Heav'n  propitious  dews  to  breathe 
Arcadian  beauty  on  the  barren  heath  ; 
Tell,  that  while  Love's  spontaneous  smile  endears 
The  days  of  peace,  the  sabbath  of  his  years, 
Health  shall  prolong  to  many  a  festive  hour 
The  social  pleasures  of  his  humble  bower. 

Lo  !  at  the  couch  were  infant  beauty  sleeps, 
Her  silent  vatch  the  mournful  mother  keeps  ; 
She,  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lies, 
Smiles  on  her  slumb'ring  child  with  pensive  eyess 
And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy — 
"  Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy  : 
No  ling'ring  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine ; 
No  sigh  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine  , 
Bright  as  his  manly  sire,  the  son  shall  be 
In  form  and  soul ;  but,  ah  !  more  blest  than  he  1 
Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love,  at  last, 
Shall  soothe  this  aching  heart  for  all  the  past — 
With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 
And  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away. 


19 

"  And  say,  when  summon'd  from  the  world  and  thee, 
I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree, 
Wilt  thou,  sweet  mourner  !  at  my  stone  appear, 
And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering-  near  ? 
Oh,  wilt  thou  come,  at  ev'ning  hour,  to  shed 
The  tears  of  Memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed  ; 
With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclin'd, 
Muse  on  the  last  farewel  I  leave  behind, 
Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low. 
And  think  on  all  my  love,  and  all  my  woe  I" 

So  speaks  affection,  ere  the  infant  eye 
Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply  -, 
But  when  the  cherub  lip  hath  learnt  to  claim 
A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name  ; 
Soon  as  the  playful  innocent  can  prove 
A  tear  of  pit}',  or  a  smile  of  love, 
Or  cons  his  murmuring  task  beneath  her  care, 
Or  lisps  with  holy  loek  his  ev'ning  prayer, 
Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive,  sits  to  hear 
The  mournful  ballad  warbled  in  his  ear ; 
How  fondly  looks  admiring  Hope  the  while, 
At  every  artless  tear,  and  every  smile  ' 


20 


How  glows  the  joyous  parent  to  descry 
A  guileless  bosom,  true  to  sympathy ! 

Where  is  the  troubled  heart,  consign'd  to  share 
Tumultuous  toils,  or  solitary  care, 
Unblest  by  visionary  thoughts  that  stray 
To  count  the  joys  of  Fortune's  better  day  ! 
Lo,  nature,  life,  and  liberty  relume 
The  dim-eyed  tenant  of  the  dungeon  gloom, 
A  long  lost  friend,  or  hapless  child  restor'd, 
Smiles  at  his  blazing  hearth  and  social  board  ; 
Warm  from  his  heart  the  tears  of  rapture  flow, 
And  virtue  triumphs  o'er  remember'd  woe. 

Chide  not  his  peace,  proud  Reason  !  nor  destroy 
The  shadowy  forms  of  uncreated  joy, 
That  urge  the  lingering  tide  of  life,  and  pour 
Spontaneous  slumber  on  his  midnight  hour. 
Hark  !  the  wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gale 
That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail ; 
She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wint'ry  shore 
Watch 'd  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  corse  that  bore, 


21 


Knew  the  paie  form,  and,  shrieking"  in  amaze, 
Clasp'd  her  cold  hands,  and  fix'd  her  maddening-  gaze 
Poor  widow'd  wretch !  'twas  there  she  wept  in  vain, 
Till  memory  fled  her  agonizing  brain  : — 
But  Mercy  gave,  to  charm  the  sense  of  woe, 
Ideal  peace,  that  truth  could  ne'er  bestow  ; 
Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam, 
And  aimless  Hope  delights  her  darkest  dream. 

Oft  when  yon  moon  has  climb'd  the  midnight  sky, 
And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry, 
Pil'd  on  the  steep,  her  blazing  faggots  burn 
To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return  j 
And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep 
That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep. 

And,mark  the  wretch,  whose  wand'rings  never  knew 
The  world's  regard,  that  soothes,  though  half  untrue, 
Whose  erring  heart  the  lash  of  sorrow  bore, 
But  found  not  pity  when  it  err'd  no  more. 
Yon  friendless  man,  at  whose  dejected  eye 
Th'  unfeeling  proud  one  looks — and  oasses  bv  ; 


22 


Condemn'd  on  Penury's  barren  path  to  roam, 
Scorn'd  by  the  world,  and  left  without  a  home — 
Ev'nhe,  at  evening",  should  he  chance  to  stray 
Down  by  the  hamlet's  hawthorn-scented  way, 
Where,  round  the  cot's  romantic  glade  are  seen 
The  blossom'd  bean-field,  and  the  sloping-  green, 
Leans  o'er  its  humble  gate,  and  thinks  the  while — 
Oh  !  that  for  me  some  home  like  this  would  smile, 
Some  hamlet  shade,  to  yield  my  sickly  form, 
Health  in  the  breeze,  and  shelter  in  the  storm  ! 
There  should  my  hand  no  stinted  boon  assign 
To  wretched  hearts  with  sorrows  such  as  mine  ! — 
That  generous  wish  can  soothe  unpitied  care, 
And  Hope  half  mingles  with  the  poor  man's  pray'r, 

Hope  !  when  I  mourn,  with  sympathizing  mind, 
The  wrongs  of  fate,  the  woes  of  human  kind, 
Thy  blissful  omens  bid  my  spirit  see 
The  boundless  fields  of  rapture  yet  to  be; 
I  watch  the  wheels  of  Nature's  mazy  plan. 
And  learn  the  future  by  the  past  of  man- 


Come,  bright  Improvement !  on  the  car  of  Time, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime ; 
Thy  handmaid  arts  shall  every  wild  explore, 
Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. 
On  Erie's  banks,  where  tigers  steal  along, 
And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song, 
Where  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  walk, 
And  bathe  in  brains  the  murd'rous  tomahawk; 
There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray, 
And  shepherds  dance  at  Summer's  op'ning  day; 
Each  wand'ring  genius  of  the  lonely  glen 
Shall  start  to  view  the  glittering  haunts  of  men  ; 
And  silent  watch,  on  woodland  heights  around, 
The  village  curfew,  as  it  tolls  profound. 

In  Lvbian  groves,  where  damned  rites  are  done, 
That  bathe  the  rocks  in  blood,  and  veil  the  sun. 
Truth  shall  arrest  the  murd'rous  arm  profane, 
Wild  Obi  flies" — the  veil  is  rent  in  twain. 

Where  barb'rous   hordes   on    Scythian   mountains 
roam, 
Truth,  Mercv,  Freedom,  vet  shall  find  a  home  ; 


Where'er  degraded  Nature  bleeds  and  pines, 
From  Guinea's  coast  to  Sibir's  dreary  mines,  e 
Truth  shall  pervade  th'  unfathom'd  darkness  there, 
And  light  the  dreadful  features  of  despair. — 
Hark !  the  stern  captive  spurns  his  heavy  load, 
And  asks  the  image  back  that  Heaven  bestow'd! 
Fierce  in  his  eye  the  fire  of  valour  burns, 
And,  as  the  slave  departs,  the  man  returns  ! 

Oh  !  sacred  Truth  !  thy  triumph  ceas'd  awhile, 
And  hope,  thy  sister,  ceas'd  with  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagu'd  Oppression  pour'd  to  northern  wars 
Her  whisker'd  pandoors  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Wav'd  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
PeaPdher  loud  drum,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet  horn 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 


Warsaw's  last  champion,  from  her  height  survey M, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid, — 
Oh  !  Heav'n  !  he  cried,  my  bleeding  country  save  !— - 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave. 


25 


Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  these  lovely  plains., 
Rise,  fellow-men  !  our  country  yet  remains ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high, 
And  swear  for  her  to  live !— with  her  to  die  ! 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  array'd 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismay'd  ; 
Firm-pac'd  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low,  murm'ring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Eevenge,  or  death, — the  watchword  and  reply  ; 
Then  peal'd  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  toll'd  their  last  alarm  ! — 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volley'd  thunder  flew  : — 
Oh  !  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime  ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe! 
DroppM  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shatter'd  spear, 
Clos'd  her  bright  eye,  and  curb'd  her  high  career  ; — 


26 


Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewel, 
And  Freedom  shriek'd — as  Kosciusko  fell! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceas'd  the  carnage  there. 
Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  air — 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dy'd  waters  murm'ring  far  below  ; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  a  way, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay  ! 
Hark !  as  the  mouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall. 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call! 
Earth  shook — red  meteors  flash'd  along  the  sky, 
And  conscious  Nature  shudder'd  at  the  cry  ! 

Oh  !  Righteous  Heaven  !  ere  Freedom  found  a  grave. 
Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  ? 
Where  was  thine  arm,  O  Vengeance  !  where  thy  rod, 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God, 
That  crush'd  proud  Amnion,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yok'd  in  wrath)  and  thunder'd  from  afar  ! 
Where  was  the  storm  that  slumberM  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stain'd  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast  > 


27 


Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow. 
And  heav'd  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  : 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled  ! 
Friends  of  the  world!  restore  your  swords  to  man, 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van  ! 
Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone, 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own  ! 
Oh  !  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 
The  Patriot  Tell — the  Bruce  of  Bax.nockburn  ! 

Yes  !  thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land  !  shall  see 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul — and  dare  be  free ! 
A  little  while,  along-  thy  saddening-  plains, 
The  starless  night  of  desolation  reigns  ; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  giv'n, 
And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heaven  1 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurl'd, — 
Her  name,  her  nature,  wither'd  from  the  world  ! 

Ye  that  the  rising  morn  invidious  mark, 
And  hate  the  light — because  your  deeds  are  dark  j 


28 


Ye  that  expanding-  truth  invidious  view, 
And  think,  or  wish  the  song-  of  Hope  untrue  ; 
Perhaps  your  little  hands  presume  to  span 
The  march  of  Genius,  and  the  pow'rs  of  Man  ; 
Perhaps  ye  watch,  at  Pride's  unhallow'd  shrine, 
Her  victims,  newly  slain,  and  thus  divine  : — 
u  Here  shall  thy  triumph,  Genius,  cease  ;  and  here, 
Truth,  Science,  Virtue,  close  your  short  career." 

Tyrants  !  in  vain  ye  trace  the  wizard  ring*; 
In  vain  ye  limit  Mind's  unwearied  spring  : 
What  *.  can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 
Arrest  the  rolling-  world,  or  chain  the  deep  ? 
No  : — the  wild  wave  contemns  your  scepter'd  hand  ; 
It  roll'd  not  back  when  Canute  g-ave  command  ! 

Man  !  can  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow  \ 
Still  must  thou  live  a  blot  on  Nature's  brow  ? 
Shall  War's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  furl'd  ? 
Shall  crimes  and  tyrants  cease  but  with  the  world  ? 
What !  are  thy  triumphs,  sacred  Truth,  belied  ; 
Whv  then  hath  Plato  liv'd — or  Sidnev  died  . 


29 


Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 
Who  warm  at  Scipio's  worth,  or  Tully's  name  ! 
Ye  that,  in  fancied  vision,  can  admire 
The  sword  of  Brutus,  and  the  Theban  lyre ! 
Wrapt  in  historic  ardour,  who  adore 
Each  classic  haunt,  and  well-remember'd  shore, 
Where  valour  tun'd,  amid  her  chosen  throng*, 
The  Thracian  trumpet  and  the  Spartan  song"; 
Or,  wand'ring  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 
Of  England's  glory,  and  Helvetia's  arms  ! 
See  Roman  fire  in  Hampden's  bosom  swell, 
And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
Say,  ye  fond  zealots  to  the  worth  of  yore, 
Hath  Valour  left  the  world — to  live  no  more  ? 
No  more  shall  Brutus  bid  a  tyrant  die, 
And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 
Hampden  no  more,  when  suffering  Freedom  calls, 
Encounter  fate,  and  triumph  as  he  falls  ? 
Nor  Tell  disclose,  through  peril  and  alarm, 
The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm  ? 

Yes  !  in  that  generous  cause  for  ever  strong', 
The  patriot's  virtue,  and  the  poet's  song-, 


3Q 


Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away, 

Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay ! 

Yes  !  there  are  hearts,  prophetic  Hope  may  trust, 
That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  dust, 
Ordain'd  to  fire  th'  adoring  sons  of  earth 
With  every  charm  of  wisdom  and  of  worth; 
Ordain'd  to  light,  with  intellectual  day, 
The  mazy  wheels  of  Nature  as  they  play, 
Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow, 
And  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below  ! 

And  say,  supernal  Powers!   who  deeply  scan 
HeavVs  dark  decrees,  unfathom'd  yet  by  man, 
When  shall  the  world  call  down,  to  cleanse  her  shame. 
That  embryo  spirit,  yet  without  a  name, — 
That  friend  of  Nature,  whose  avenging  hands 
Shall  burst  the  Lybian's  adamantine  bands  ? 
Who,  sternly  marking  on  his  native  soil, 
The  blood,  the  tears,  the  anguish,  and  the  toil, 
Shall  bid  each  righteous  heart  exult,  to  see 
P^ace  to  the  slave,  and  vengeance  on  the  free  ! 


SI 


Yet,  yet,  degraded  men  !  th'  expected  day 
That  breaks  your  bitter  cup,  is  far  away ; 
Trade,  wealth,  and  fashion,  ask  you  still  to  bleed, 
And  holy  men  give  scripture  for  the  deed  ; 
Scourg'd  and  debas'd,  no  Britain  stoops  to  save 
A  wretch,  a  coward ;  yes,  because  a  slave  ! 

Eternal  Nature  !  when  thy  giant  hand 
Had  heav'dthe  floods,  andfix'd  the  trembling  land, 
When  life  sprung  startling  at  thy  plastic  call, 
Endless  her  forms,  and  Man  the  lord  of  all  ! 
Say,  was  that  lordly  form  inspir'd  by  thee 
To  wear  eternal  chains,  and  bow  the  knee  ? 
Was  man  ordain'dthe  slave  of  man  to  toil, 
Yok'd  with  the  brutes,  and  fetter'd  to  the  soil ; 
Weigh'd  in  a  tyrant's  balance  with  his  gold  ? 
No  ! — Nature  stamp'd  us  in  a  heav'nly  mould ! 
She  bade  no  wretch  his  thankless  labour  urge, 
Nor,  trembling,  take  the  pittance  and  the  scourge  ! 
No  homeless  Lybian,  on  the  stormy  deep, 
To  call  upon  his  country's  name,  and  weep  ! 

Lo  !  once  in  triumph  on  his  boundless  plain, 
The  quiver'd  chief  of  Congo  lov'd  to  reign ; 


With  fires  prop  or  tion'd  to  his  native  sky, 
Strength  in  his  arm,  and  light'ning  in  his  eye  ; 
Scourg'd  with  wild  feet  his  BUn-illumin'd  zone. 
The  spear,  the  lion,  and  the  woods  his  own 
Or  led  the  combat,  bold  without  a  plan, 
An  artless  savage,  but  a  fearless  man  ! 

The  plunderer  came  : — alas  !  no  glory  smiles 
For  Congo's  chief  on  yonder  Indian  isles  ; 
For  ever  fallen  !  no  son  of  Nature  now, 
With  Freedom  charter'd  on  his  manly  brow  ! 
Faint,  bleeding,  bound,  he  weeps  the  night  away, 
And,  when  the  sea-wind  wafts  the  dewless  day, 
Starts,  with  a  bursting  heart,  for  ever  more 
To  curse  the  sun  that  lights  their  guilty  shore. 

The  shrill  horn  blew  ;'°at  that  alarum  knell 
His  guardian  angel  took  a  last  farewel  ! 
That  funeral  dirge  to  darkness  hath  resign'd 
The  fiery  grandeur  of  a  generous  mind  ! — 
Poor  fetter'd  man  !  I  hear  thee  whispering  low 
Unhallow'd  vows  to  Guilt,  the  child  of  Woe  ! 
Friendless  thy  heart ;  and,  canst  thou  harbour  there 
A  wish  but  death — a  passion  but 'despair  i 


33 


The  widow'd  Indian,  when  her  lord  expires, 
Mounts  the  dread  pile,  and  braves  the  funeral  fires  ! 
So  falls  the  heart  at  Thraldom's  bitter  sigh  ! 
So  Virtue  dies,  the  spouse  of  Liberty ! 

But  not  to  Lybia's  barren  climes  alone, 
To  Chili,  or  the  wild  Siberian  zone, 
Belong  the  wretched  heart  and  haggard  eye, 
Degraded  worth,  and  poor  misfortune's  sigh  !— 
Ye  orient  realms,  where  Ganges'  waters  run ! 
Prolific  fields  !  dominions  of  the  sun ! 
How  long  your  tribes  have  trembled,  and  obeyed  ! 
How  long  was  Timur's  iron  sceptre  sway'd ! 1 1 
Whose  marshall'd  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  plain, 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main, 
Rag'd  o'er  your  plunder'd  shrines  and  altars  bare, 
With  blazing  torch  and  gory  scymkar, — 
Stunn'd  with  the  cries  of  death  each  gentle  gale, 
And  bath'd  in  blood  the  verdure  of  the  vale ! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame, 
When  Brama's  children  perish'd  for  his  name  : 
The  martyr  smil'd  beneath  avenging  pow'r, 
A.nd  brav'd  the  tyrant  in  his  torturing  hour  ! 


When  Europe  sought  your  subject  realms  to  gain, 
And  stretch'd  her  giant  sceptre  o'er  the  main, 
Taught  her  proud  barks  their  winding  way  to  shape, 
And  brav'd  the  stormy  spirit  of  the  Cape  ;  >  2 
Children  of  Brama  !  then  was  Mercy  nigh 
To  wash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dye  ? 
Did  peace  descend,  to  triumph  and  to  save, 
When  free-born  Britons  cross'd  the  Indian  wavei 
Ah,  no ! — to  more  than  Rome's  ambition  true, 
The  Nurse  of  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  you ! 
She  the  bold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began, 
And  in  the  march  of  nations,  led  the  van  ' 

Rich  in  the  gems  of  India's  gaudy  zone, 
And  plunder  pil'd  from  kingdoms  not  their  own, 
Degenerate  Trade  !    thy  minions  could  despise 
The  heart-born  anguish  of  a  thousand  cries  ; 
Could  lock,  with  impious  hands,  their  teeming  store, 
While  famish'd  nations  died  along  the  shore;  •  a 
Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow-men,  and  bear 
The  curse  of  kingdoms  peopled  with  despair  ; 
Could  stamp  disgrace  on  man's  polluted  name, 
And  barter,  with  their  gold,  eternal  shame  ! 


But,  hark  !  as  bow'd  to  earth  the  Bramin  kneels, 
From  heav'nly  climes  propitious  thunder  peals  ! 
Of  India's  fate  her  guardian  spirits  tell, 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell, 
And  solemn  sounds,  that  awe  the  list'ning  mind. 
Roll  on  the  azure  paths  of  every  wind. 

"Foes  of  mankind!  (her  guardian  spirits  say) 
Revolving  ages  bring  the  bitter  day, 
When  HeavVs  unerring  arm  shall  fall  on  you, 
And  blood  for  blood  these  Indian  plains  bedew  ; 
Nine  times  have  Brama's  wheels  of  lightning  hurl'd 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world  ; 
Nine  times  hath  Guilt,  through  all  his  giant  frame, 
Convulsive  trembled  as  the  Mighty  came  ; 
Nine  times  hath  suffering  Mercy  spar'd  in  vain —  >  * 
But  Heav'n  shall  burst  her  starry  gates  again  ! 
He  comes  !  dread  Brama  shakes  the  sunless  sky 
With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on  high  ! 
Heaven's  fiery  horse,  beneath  his  warrior  form, 
Paws  the  light  clouds,  and  gallops  on  the  storm ! 
Wide  waves  his  flickering  sword,  his  bright  arms  glow 
Like  Summer  suns,  and  light  the  world  below ' 


36 


Earth,  and  her  trembling  isles  in  Ocean's  bed 
Are  shook,  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread  i 

"  To  pour  redress  on  India's  injur'd  realm, 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  whelm  ; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plunder'd  shore, 
With  arts  and  arms  that  triumph'd  once  before, 
The  tenth  Avatar  comes!  at  HeavVs  command 
Shall  Seriswattee1  5  wave  her  hallowed  wand  ! 
AndCamdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  sublime, 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime  ! — 
Come,  Heav'nly  Powers !  primeval  peace  restore ! 
Love  ! — Merey  ! — "Wisdom ! — rule  for  ever  more  !" 


END   OF  PART   FIRST 


THE 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE, 


PART  II 


ANALYSIS  OF  PART  II. 

APOSTROPHE  to  the  power  of  Love. ...its  intimate 
connexion  with  generous  and  social  Sensibility. -.allusion 
to  that  beautiful  passage  in  the  beginning  of  the  book  of 
Genesis,  which  represents  the  happiness  of  Paradise  itself 
incomplete,  till  iove  was  superadded  to  its  other  blessings.... 
the  dreams  of  future  felicity  which  a  lively  imagination  is 
apt  to  cherish,  when  Hope  is  animated  by  refined  attach- 
ment....this  disposition  to  combine,  in  one  imaginary  scene 
of  residence,  all  that  is  pleasing  in  our  estimate  of  happi- 
ness, compared  to  the  skill  of  the  great  artist,  who  person- 
ified perfect  beauty,  in  the  picture  of  Venus,  by  an  assem- 
blage of  the  most  beautiful  features  he  could  find.. ..a 
summer  and  winter  evening  described,  as  they  may  be  sup- 
posed to  arise  in  the  mind  of  one  who  wishes,  with  enthu- 
siasm, for  the  union  of  friendship  and  retirement. 

Hope  and  Imagination  inseparable  agents.. ..even  in  those 
contemplative  moments  when  our  imagination  wanders 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  this  world,  our  minds  are  not  un- 
attended with  an  impression  that  we  shall  some  day  have 
a  wider  and  distinct  prospect  of  the  universe,  instead  of  the 
partial  glimpse  we  now  enjoy. 

The  last  and  most  sublime  influence  of  Hope,  is  the  con- 
cluding topic  of  the  Poem. ...the  predominance  of  a  belief 
in  a  future  state  over  the  terrors  attendant  on  dissolution.... 
the  baneful  influence  of  that  sceptical  philosophy  which  bars 
us  from  such  comforts.. ..allusion  to  the  fate  of  a  suicide- 
Episode  of  Conrad  and  Ellenore....Conclusion. 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE, 


PART  II. 

J.N  joyous  youth,  what  soul  hath  never  known 
Thought,  feeling-,  taste,  harmonious  to  its  own  ? 
Who  hath  not  paus'd,  while  Beauty's  pensive  eye 
Ask'd  from  his  heart  the  homage  of  a  sigh  ? 
Who  hath  not  own'd,  with  rapture-smitten  frame, 
The  power  of  grace,  the  magic  of  a  name  I 

There  be,  perhaps,  who  barren  hearts  avow, 
Cold  as  the  rocks  on  Torneo's  hoary  brow  ; 
There  be,  whose  loveless  wisdom  never  fail'd, 
In  self-adoring  pride  securely  mail'd  ; — 

4* 


42 


But,  triumph  not,  ye  peace-enamour'd  few  ! 

m 
Fire,  Nature,  Genius,  never  dwelt  with  you! 

For  you  no  fancy  consecrates  the  scene 

Where  rapture  utter'd  vows,  and  wept  between 

'Tis  yours,  unmov'd,  to  sever  and  to  meet ; 

No  pledge  is  sacred,  and  no  home  is  sweet  1 

Who  that  would  ask  a  heart  to  dulness  wed, 
The  waveless  calm,  the  slumber  of  the  dead  ? 
No  ;  the  wild  bliss  of  nature  needs  alloy, 
And  fear  and  sorrow  fan  the  fire  of  joy  ! 
And  say,  without  our  hopes,  without  our  fears, 
Without  the  home  that  plighted  love  endears, 
Without  the  smile  from  partial  beauty  won, 
O  !  what  were  man  • — a  world  without  a  sun  1 

Till  Hymen  brought  his  love-delighted  hour, 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bow'r! 
In  vain  the  viewless  seraph  ling'ring  there, 
At  starry  midnight  charm'd  the  silent  air ; 
In  vain  the  wild-bird  carol'd  on  the  steep, 
To  hail  the  sun,  slow-wheeling  from  the  deep  ; 


43 


In  vain,  to  soothe  the  solitary  shade, 

Aerial  notes  in  mingling  measure  play'd  ; 

The  summer  wind  that  shook  the  spang-led  tree, 

The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  bee ; — 

Still  slowly  pass'd  the  melancholy  day, 

And  still  the  stranger  wist  not  where  to  stray, — 

The  world  was  sad  ! — the  garden  was  a  wild  ! 

And  Man,  the  hermit,  sigh'd — till  Woman  smil'd  ! 

True,  the  sad  power  to  generous  hearts  may  bring 
Delirious  anguish  on  his  fiery  wing  ! 
Barr'd  from  delight  by  Fate's  untimely  hand, 
By  wealthless  lot,  or  pitiless  command  ; 
Or  doom'd  to  gaze  on  beauties  that  adorn 
The  smile  of  triumph,  or  the  frown  of  scorn  ; 
While  Memory  watches  o'er  the  sad  review, 
Of  joys  that  faded  like  the  morning  dew  ; 
Peace  may  depart — and  life  and  nature  seem 
A  barren  path — a  wilderness,  and  a  dream  ' 

But,  can  the  noble  mind  forever  brood, 
The  willing  victim  of  a  weary  mood, 


44 


U;i  heartless  eares  that  squander  life  away, 

And  cloud  young  Genius  bright'ning  into  day  : — 

Shame  to  the  coward  thought  that  e'er  betray 'd 

The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  ! — ' 

If  Hope's  creative  spirit  cannot  raise 

One  trophy  sacred  to  thy  future  days, 

Scorn  the  dull  crowd  that  haunt  the  gloomy  shrine 

Of  hopeless  love  to  murmur  and  repine! 

But,  should  a  sigh  of  milder  mood  express 

Thy  heart-warm  wishes,  true  to  happiness, 

Should  HeavVs  fair  harbinger  delight  to  pour 

Her  blissful  visions  on  thy  pensive  hour, 

No  tear  to  blot  thy  memory's  pictur'd  page, 

Xo  fears  but  such  as  fancy  can  assuage ; 

Though  thy  wild  heart  some  hapless  hour  may  miss 

The  peaceful  tenor  of  unvaried  bliss, 

(For  love  pursues  an  ever  devious  race, 

True  to  the  winding  lineaments  of  grace  ;) 

Yet  still  may  Hope  her  talisman  employ 

To  snatch  from  Heaven  anticipated  joy, 

And  all  her  kindred  energies  impart 

That  burn  the  brightest  in  the  purest  heart  1 


45 


When  first  the  Rhodian's  mimic  art  array'd 
The  queen  of  Beauty  in  her  Cyprian  shade, 
The  happy  master  mingled  on  his  piece 
Each  look  that  charm'd  him  in  the  fair  of  Greece  , 
To  faultless  Nature  true,  he  stole  a  grace 
From  every  finer  form  and  sweeter  face  ; 
And,  as  he  sojourn'd  on  the  JEgean  isles, 
Woo'd  all  their  love,  and  treasur'd  all  their  smiles  ; 
Then  glow'd  the  tints,  pure,  precious,  and  refin'd, 
And  mortal  charms  seem'd  heavenly  when  combin'd  f 
Love  on  the  picture  smil'd  !  Expression  pour'd 
Her  mingling  spirit  there — and  Greece  ador'd  ! 

So  thy  fair  hand,  enamour'd  Fancy  !  gleans 
The  treasur'd  pictures  of  a  thousand  scenes  ; 
Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  Lover's  thought 
Some  cottage-home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where  Love  and  Lore  may  claim  alternate  hours, 
With  Peace  embosom'd  in  Idalian  bow'rs  ! 
Remote  from  busy  life's  bewilder'd  way, 
O'er  all  his  heart  shall  taste  and  beauty  sway  ! 
Free  on  the  sunny  slope,  or  winding  shore, 
With  hermit  steps  to  wander  and  adore  ! 


46 


There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  morn  appears, 

Like  pensive  beauty  smiling-  in  her  tears, 

To  watch  the  bright'ning  roses  of  the  sky, 

And  muse  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye' — 

And  when  the  sun's  last  splendour  lights  the  deep, 

The  woods,  and  waves,  and  murm'ring  winds  asleep 

When  fairy  harps  th'  Hesperian  planet  hail, 

And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale, 

His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 

Their  shadowy  grandeur  oer  the  narrow  dell, 

Where  mouldering  piles  and  forests  intervene, 

Mingling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green; 

No  circling  hills  his  ravish'd  eye  to  bound, 

Heaven,  Earth,  and  Ucean,  blazing  all  around  ! 

The  moon  is  up — the  watch-tow'r  dimly  burns — 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns ; 
But  pauses  oft,  as  winding  rocks  convey 
The  still  sweet  fall  of  Music  far  away  ; 
And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile 
To  watch  the  dying  notes  ! — and  start,  and  smile  ! 

Let  Winter  come  !  let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The  dark'ning  world,  and  tempest-troubled  deep  ! 


47 


Though  boundless  snows  the  wither'd  heath  deform, 

And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the  storm  j 

Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay, 

With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day  ! 

And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o'er, 

The  ice  chain'd  waters  slumbering  on  the  shore, 

How  bright  the  faggots  in  his  little  hall 

Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictur'd  wall  1 

How  blest  he  names,  in  Love's  familiar  tone, 
The  kind  fair  friend,  by  Nature  mark'd  his  own  } 
And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind, 
Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 
Since  Anna's  empire  o'er  his  heart  began  ! 
Since  first  he  call'd  her  his  before  the  holy  man! 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 
And  light  the  wintry  paradise  of  home  ; 
And  let  the  half-uncurtain'd  window  hail 
Some  way-worn  man  benighted  in  the  vale  ! 
Now,  while  the  moaning  night-wind  rages  high, 
\s  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky« 


48 


^>V liile  fiery  hosts  in  HeavVs  wide  circle  play, 

And  bath  in  livid  light  the  milky  way, 

.Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower, 

Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hour — 

With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit  beguile, 

A  generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a  smile — 

Thy  woes,  Arion  !  and  thy  simple  tale,  3 

O'er  all  the  heart  shall  triumph  and  prevail ! 

Charm'd  as  they  read  the  verse  too  sadly  true, 

How  gallant  Albert,  and  his  weary  crew, 

Ileav'd  all  their  guns,  their  foundering  bark  to  save, 

And  toil'd — and  shriek'd — and  perish'd  on  the  wave 

Yes,  at  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seamen's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep  ; 
There  on  his  funeral  waters  dark  and  wild, 
The  dying  father  blest  his  darling  child  ! 
Oh  !  Mercy,  shield  her  innocence,  he  cried, 
Spent  on  the  pray'r  his  bursting  heart,  and  died  ' 

Or  will  they  learn  how  generous  worth  sublimes 
The  robber  Moor,'    and  pleads  for  all  his  crimes  ! 


49 


How  poor  Amelia  kiss'd,  with  many  a  tear, 
His  hand  blood-stain'd,  but  ever  ever  dear  ! 
Hung  on  the  tortur'd  bosom  of  her  lord, 
And  wept,  and  pray'd  perdition  from  his  sword  ! 
Nor  sought  in  vain  !  at  that  heart-piercing  cry 
The  strings  of  nature  crack'd  with  agony  1 
He,  with  delirious  laugh,  the  dagger  hurl'd, 
And  burst  the  ties  that  bound  him  to  the  world  ! 

Turn  from  his  dying  words,  that  smite  with  steel 
The  shuddering  thoughts,  or  wind  them  on  the  wheel- 
Turn  to  the  gentler  melodies  that  suit 
Thalia's  harp,  or  Pan's  Arcadian  lute; 
Or,  down  the  stream  of  Truth's  historic  page, 
From  clime  to  clime  descend  from  age  to  age  ! 

Yet  there,  perhaps,  may  darker  scenes  obtrude 
Than  Fancy  fashions  in  her  wildest  mood ; 
There  shall  he  pause,  with  horrent  brow,  to  rate 
What  millions  died — that  Cssar  might  he  great  \* 
Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thousands  bore,5 
Ifarcb'd  by  their  Charles  to  Dneiper's  swampy  shore. 


50 


Faint  in  his  wounds,  and  shivering  in  the  blast, 
The  Swedish  soldier  sunk — and  groan'd  his  last-! 
File  after  file,  the  stormy  showers  benumb, 
Freeze  every  standard-sheet,  and  hush  the  drum! 
Horsemen  and  horse  confess'd  the  bitter  pang, 
And  arms  and  warriors  fell  with  hollow  clang ! 
Yet,  ere  he  sunk  in  Nature's  last  repose, 
Ere  life's  warm  torrent  to  the  fountain  froze, 
The  dying  man  to  Sweden  turn'd  his  eye, 
Thought  of  his  home,  and  clos'd  it  with  a  sigh ! 
Imperial  Pride  look'd  sullen  on  his  plight, 
And  Charles  beheld — nor  shudder'd  at  the  sight ! 

Above,  below,  in  Ocean,  Earth,  and  Sky, 
Thy  fairy  worlds,  Imagination,  lie, 
And  Hope  attends,  companion  of  the  way, 
Thy  dream  by  night,  thy  visions  of  the  day  ! 
In  yonder  pensile  orb,  and  every  sphere 
That  gems  the  stavry  girdle  of  the  \ear  ; 
In  those  unmeasur'd  worlds,  she  bids  thee  tell, 
Pure  from  their  God,  created  millions  dwell, 
Whose  names  and  natures,  unreveal'd  below, 
AVe  vet  shall  learn,  and  wonder  a<?  we  know  ; 


51 


For,  aslona's  Saint,  a  giant  form," 
Tbron'd  on  her  tow'rs,  conversing  with  the  storm, 
(When  o'er  each  runic  altar,  weed-entwin'd, 
The  vesper  clock  tolls  mournful  to  the  wind), 
Counts  every  wave-worn  isle,  and  mountain  hoar, 
From  Kilda  to  the  green  Ierne's  shore  ; 
So,  when  thy  pure  and  renovated  mind 
This  perishable  dust  hath  left  behind, 
Thy  seraph  eye  shall  count  the  starry  train, 
Like  distant  isles  embosom'd  in  the  main  ; 
Rapt  to  the  shrine  where  motion  first  began, 
And  light  and  life  in  mingling  torrent  ran, 
From  whence  each  bright  rotundity  was  hurl'd, 
The  throne  of  God, — the  centre  of  the  world ! 

Oh  !  vainly  wise,  the  moral  Muse  hath  sung 
That  suasive  Hope  hath  but  a  Syren  tongue  ! 
True  ;  she  may  sport  with  life's  untutor'd  day, 
Nor  heed  the  solace  of  its  last  decay, 
The  guileless  heart  her  happy  mansion  spurnj 
And  part  like  Ajut — never  to  return  ! ' 

But  yet,  methinks,  when  Wisdom  shall  assauge 
The  griefs  and  passions  of  our  greener  age, 


52 


Though  dull  the  close  of  life,  ami  far  away 

Each  flow'r  that  hail'd  the  dawning  of  the  day; 

Yet  o'er  her  lovely  hopes  that  once  were  dear, 

The  time-taught  spirit,  pensive,  not  severe, 

With  milder  griefs  her  aged  eye  shall  fill, 

And  weep  their  falsehood,  though  she  love  them  still 

Thus,  with  forgiving  tears,  and  reconcil'd, 
The  king  of  Judah  mourn'd  his  rebel  child  ! 
Musing  on  days,  when  yet  the  guiltless  boy 
Smil'd  on  his  sire,  and  fill'd  his  heart  with  joy  ; 
My  Absalom  !  (the  voice  of  Nature  cried  !) 
Oh  !  that  for  thee  thy  father  could  have  died  ! 
For  bloody  was  the  deed,  and  rashly  done, 
Thatslew  my  Absalom  ! — my  son! — my  son  ! 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return ! 
Heav'n  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour  ! 
Oh  !  then,  thy  kingdom  comes  !   Immortal  Power! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye ! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day — • 


Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin  ! 
And  all  the  Phoenix  spirit  burns  within  ! 

Oh!  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes  ! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  parting  spirit  sigh, 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die  ! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravell'd  by  the  sun  ! 
Where  Time's  fur-wand' ring  tide  has  never  run, 
From  your  unfathom'd  shades,  and  viewless  spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  others  ears. 
sTis  HeavVs  commanding  trumpet,  long  and  loud, 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud  ! 
While  Nature  hears,  with  terror-mingled  tx-ust, 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust ; 
And,  like  the  trembling  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  call'd  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss, 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss  ! 

Daughter  of  Faith,  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb  ! 
5* 


54, 


Melt,  and  dispel,  ye  epectre-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  on  the  parting-  soul  ! 
Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay, 
Chas'd  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day  ! 
The  strife  is  o'er — the  pangs  of  Nature  close, 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark  !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  Heav'n  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 
On  Heav'nly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky, 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody  ; 
Wild  as  that  hallow'd  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale, 
AVhen  Jordan  hush'd  his  waves,  and  midnight  still 
Watch'd  on  the  holy  tow'rs  of  Zion  hill  ! 

Soul  of  the  just!  companion  of  the  dead! 
"Where  is  thy  home,  and  whither  art  thou  fled  ! 
Back  to  its  heav'nly  source  thy  being  g-oes, 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose  ; 
Doom'don  his  airy  path  awhile  to  burn, 
And  doom'd,  like  thee,  to  travel,  and  return. — 
Hark!  from  the  world's  exploding-  centre  driv'n, 
With  sounds  that  shook  the  firmament  of  Heav'n, 


55 


Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far, 

On  bick'ring  wheels,  and  adamantine  car  ; 

From  planet  whirl'd  to  planet  more  remote, 

He  visits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought^ 

But,  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is  run, 

Curbs  the  red  yoke,  and  mingles  with  the  sun  ! 

So  hath  the  traveller  of  earth  unfurl'd 

Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world  ; 

And  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod, 

Sprung  to  her  source,  the  bosom  of  her  God  ! 

Oh  !  lives  there,  Heav'n  !  beneath  thy  dread  expanse, 
One  hopeless,  dark  Idolater  of  Chance, 
Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefin'd, 
The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind  ; 
Who,  moujd'ring  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust, 
In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust, 
Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss, 
And  call  this  barren  world  sufficient  bliss  ?— » 
There  live,  alas  !  of  Heav'n-directed  mien, 
Of  cultur'd  soul,  and  sapient  eye  serene, 
Who  hail  thee,  Man  !  the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 
Spouse  of  the  worm,  and  brother  of  the  clay  V 


56 


Frail  as  the  leaf  in  Autumn's  yellow  bower, 
Dust  in  the  wind,  or  dew  upon  the  flower  ! 
A  friendless  slave,  a  child  without  a  sire, 
Whose  mortal  life,  and  momentary  fire, 
Lights  to  the  grave  his  chance-created  form, 
As  ocean-wrecks  illuminate  the  storm  ; 
And,  when  the  grin's  tremendous  flash  is  o'er, 
To  Night  and  Silence  sink  for  ever  more  ! — 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demi-gods  of  Fame  ? 
Is  this  your  triumph — this  your  proud  applause, 
Children  of  Truth,  and  champions  of  her  cause  ? 
For  this  hath  Science  search'd,  on  weary  wing, 
By  shore  and  sea — each  mute  and  living  thing? 
Launch'd  with  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  steeg, 
To  worlds  unknown,  and  isles  beyond  the  deep  : 
Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driv'n, 
And  wheel'd  in  triumph  through  the  signs  of  Heav'n 
Oh  !  star-eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wander'd  there, 
To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  despair  ? 
Then  bind  the  palm,  the  sage's  brow  to  suit, 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-distilling  fruit ! 


57 


Ah  me  !  the  laurel'd  wreath  that  murder  rears, 

Blood-nurs'd,  and  water'd  by  the  widow's  tears, 

Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so  dread, 

As  waves  the  night-shade  round  the  sceptic  head. 

What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain  ? 

I  smile  on  death,  if  Heav'n-ward  Hope  remain  ! 

But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's  strife 

Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life, 

If  Chance  awak'd,  inexorable  pow'r  ! 

This  frail  and  fev'rish  being  of  an  hour, 

Doom'd  o'er  the  world's  precarious  scene  to  sweep, 

Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the  deep, 

To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting  smile, 

And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep,  a  little  while  ; 

Then  melt,  ye  elements,  that  form'd  in  vain 

This  troubled  pulse,  and  visionary  brain ! 

Fade,  ye  wild  flowers,  memorials  of  my  doom  ! 

And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to  the  tomb  ! 

Truth,  ever  lovely,  since  the  world  began, 

The  foe  of  tyrants,  and  the  friend  of  man, — 

How  can  thy  words  from  balmy  slumber  start 

Reposing  Virtue,  pillow'd  on  the  heart ! 


5  8 


Yet,  if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thunder  roll'd, 
And  that  were  true  which  Nature  never  told, 
Let  Wisdom  smile  not  on  her  conquer  \i  field  ; 
No  rapture  dawns,  no  treasure  is  reveal'd! 
Oh  !  let  her  read,  nor  loudly,  nor  elate, 
The  doom  that  bars  us  from  a  better  fate ; 
But,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's  sin, 
Weep  to  record,  and  blush  to  give  it  in  ! 

And  well  may  Doubt,  the  mother  of  Dismay, 
Pause  at  her  martyr's  tomb,  and  read  the  lay, 
Down  by  the  wilds  of  yon  deserted  vale, 
It  darkly  hints  a  melancholy  tale  ! 
There,  as  the  homeless  madman  sits  alone, 
In  hollow  winds  he  hears  a  spirit  moan  ! 
And  there,  they  say,  a  wizard  orgie  crowds, 
When  the  moon  lights  her  watch-tower  in  the  clouds, 
Poor,  lost  Alonzo  !  Fate's  neglected  child  ! 
Mild  be  the  doom  of  Heav'n — as  thou  wert  mild ! 
For  oh  !  thy  heart  in  holy  mould  was  cast, 
And  all  thy  deeds  were  blameless,  but  the  last. 
Poor,  lost  Alonzo !  still  I  seem  to  hear 
The  clod  that  struck  thy  hollow-sounding  bier  ! 


59 


When  Friendship  paid,  in  speechless  sorrow  drown'd, 
Thy  midnight  rites,  but  not  on  hallow'd  ground  ! 

Cease  every  joy  to  glimmer  on  my  mind, 
But  leave — oh !  leave  the  light  of  Hope  behind  ! 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been, 
Like  angel-visits,  few,  and  far  between  ! 
Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease, 
And  charm — when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to  please  ] 

Yes  !  let  each  rapture,  dear  to  Xature,  flee  ; 
Close  not  the  light  of  Fortune's  stormy  sea — 
Mirth,  Music,  Friendship,  Love's  propitious  smile, 
Chase  every  care,  and  charm  a  little  while, 
Ecstatic  throbs  the  fluttering  heart  employ, 
And  all  her  strings  are  harmoniz'd  to  Joy  ! — 
But  why  so  short  is  Love's  delighted  hour  ? 
Why  fades  the  dew  on  Beauty's  sweetest  flow'r  .' 
Why  can  no  hymned  charm  of  Music  heal 
The  sleepless  woes  impassion'd  spirits  fell? 
Can  Fancy's  fairy  hands  no  veil  create, 
To  hide  the  sad  realities  of  fate  ? — 


60 


No  !  not  the  quaint  remark,  the  sapient  rule, 
Nor  all  the  pride  of  Wisdom's  worldly  school, 
Have  pow'r  to  soothe,  unaided  and  alone, 
The  heart  that  vibrates  to  a  feeling-  tone  ! 
"When  stepdame  Nature  every  bliss  recals, 
Fleet  as  the  meteor  o'er  the  desert  falls  ; 
When,  'reft  of  all,  yon  widow'd  sire  appears 
A  lonely  hermit  in  the  vale  of  years  ; 
Say,  can  the  world  one  joyous  thought  bestow 
To  Friendship,  weeping  at  the  couch  of  Woe  ? 
No  !  but  a  brighter  soothes  the  last  adieu, — 
Souls  of  impassion'd  mould,  she  speaks  to  you  ' 
Weep  not,  she  says,  at  Nature's  transient  pain, 
Congenial  spirits  part  to  meet  again  ! 

What  plaintive  sobs  thy  filial  spirit  drew, 
What  sorrow  chok'd  thy  long  and  last  adieu, 
Daughter  of  Conrad  !  when  he  heard  his  knell, 
And  bade  his  country  and  his  child  farewel ! 
Doonvd  the  long  isles  of  Sydney  Cove  to  see, 
The  martyr  of  his  crimes,  but  true  to  thee  ? 
Thrice  the  sad  father  tore  thee  from  his  heart, 
And  thrice  retuniM,  to  bless  thee,  and  to  part ; 


61 


Thrice  from  his  trembling'  lips  he  murmur'd  low 
The  plaint  that  own'd  unutterable  woe  ; 
Till  Faith,  prevailing-  o'er  his  sullen  doom, 
As  bursts  the  morn  on  night's  unfathom'd  gloom, 
Lur'd  his  dim  eye  to  deathless  hopes  sublime, 
Beyond  the  realms  of  Nature  and  of  Time  ! 

"  And  weep  not  thus,  (he  cried)  young"  Ellenore., 
My  bosom  bleeds,  but  soon  shall  bleed  no  more  ! 
Short  shall  this  half-extinguish'd  spirit  burn, 
And  soon  these  limbs  to  kindred  dust  return  ! 
But  not,  my  child,  with  life's  precarious  fire, 
The  immortal  ties  of  Nature  shall  expire  ; 
These  shall  resist  the  triumph  of  decay, 
When  time  is  o'er,  and  worlds  have  pass'd  away  1 
Cold  in  the  dust  this  perish'd  heart  may  lie, 
But  that  which  warm'd  it  once  shall  never  die  ! 
That  spark  unburied  in  its  mortal  frame, 
With  living  light,  eternal,  and  the  same, 
Shall  beam  on  Joy's  interminable  years, 
UnveiPd  by  darkness — unassuag'd  by  tears  ! 

"  Yet,  on  the  barren  shore  and  stormy  deep, 
One  tedious  watch  is  Conrad doom'd  to  weep; 
6 


62 


Bat  when  I  gain  the  home  without  a  friend, 
And  press  th'  uneasy  couch  were  none  attend, 
This  last  embrace,  still  cherish'd  in  my  heart, 
Shall  calm  the  struggling  spirit  ere  it  part ! 
Thy  darling  form  shall  seem  to  hover  nigh, 
And  hush  the  groan  of  life's  last  agony  ! 

"  Farewel  I  when  strangers  lift  thy  father's  bier, 
And  place  my  nameless  stone  without  a  tear  ; 
When  each  returning-  pledge  hath  told  my  child 
That  Conrad's  tomb  is  on  the  desert  pil'd ; 
And  when  the  dream  of  troubled  fancy  sees 
Its  lonely  rank  grass  waving  in  the  breeze; 
Who  then  will  soothe  thy  grief,  when  mine  is  o'er 
Who  will  protect  thee,  helpless  Ellenore  ? 
Shall  secret  scenes  thy  filial  sorrows  hide, 
Scorn'd  by  the  world,  to  factious  guilt  allied  1 
Ah  !   no  ;  methinks  the  generous  and  the  good 
Will  woo  thee  from  the  shades  of  solitude  ! 
O'er  friendless  grief  compassion  shall  awake, 
And  smile  on  Innocence,  for  Mercy's  sake  !" 

Inspiring  thought  of  rapture  yet  to  be, 
The  tears  of  love  were  hopeless,  but  for  thee '. 


If  in  that  frame  no  deathless  spirit  dwell. 

If  that  faint  murmur  be  the  last  farewel ! 

If  fate  unite  the  faithful  but  to  part, 

Why  is  their  memory  sacred  to  the  heart  ? 

Why  does  the  brother  of  my  childhood  seem 

Restor'd  awhile  in  every  pleasing-  dream  ? 

Why  do  I  joy  the  lonely  spot  to  view, 

Wy  artless  friendship  bless'd  when  life  was  new  « 

Eternal  Hope  !  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Peal'd  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  Time3 
Thy  joyous  youth  began — but  not  to  fade. — 
When  all  the  sister  planets  have  decay'd  ; 
When  rapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  below 
Thou,  undismay'd,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Xature's  funeral  pile  i 

END   OF   PART  SECOND. 


NOTES. 


«* 


NOTES. 


PART  I. 

Note  I.  And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore. 

The  following-  picture  of  his  own  distress,  given  by- 
Byron  in  his  simple  and  interesting  narrative,  justifies 
the  description  in  page  10. 

After  relating  the  barbarity  of  the  Indian  cacique  to 
his  child,  he  proceeds  thus : — "  A  day  or  two  after, 
we  put  to  sea  again,  and  crossed  the  great  bay  I  men- 
tioned we  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  when  we  first 
hauled  away  to  the  westward.  The  land  here  was 
very  low  and  sandy,  and  something  like  the  mouth  of 
a  river  which  discharged  itself  into  tRe  sea,  and  which 
had  been  taken  no  notice  of  by  us  before,  as  it  was  so 
shallow,  that  the  Indians  were  obliged  to  take  every- 
thing out  of  their  canoes,  and  carry  it  over  land.  We 
rowed  up  the  river  four  or  five  leagues,  and  then  took 
into  a  branch  of  it  that  ran  first  to  the  eastward,  and 
then  to  the  northward  :  here  it  became  much  narrow 


68 


er,  and  the  stream  excessively  rapid,  so  that  we  gained 
but  little  way,  though  we  wrought  very  hard.  At  night 
we  landed  upon  its  banks,  and  had  a  most  uncomfort- 
able lodging,  it  being  a  perfect  swamp  ;  and  we  had 
nothing  to  cover  us,  though  it  rained  excessively.  The 
Indians  were  little  better  off  than  we,  as  there  was  no 
wood  here  to  make  their  wigwams  ;  so  that  all  they 
could  do  was  to  prop  up  the  bark,  which  they  carry  in 
the  bottom  of  their  canoes,  and  shelter  themselves  as 
well  as  they  could  to  the  leeward  of  it.  Knowing  the 
difficulties  they  had  to  encounter  here,  they  had  pro- 
vided themselves  with  some  seal  ;  but  we  had  not  a 
morsel  to  eat,  after  the  heavy  fatigues  of  the  day,  ex- 
cepting a  sort  of  root  we  saw  the  Indians  make  use  of 
which  was  very  disagreeable  to  the  taste.  We  labour- 
ed all  the  next  day  against  the  stream,  and  fared  as 
we  had  done  the  day  before.  The  next  day  brought  us 
to  the  carrying  place.  Here  was  plenty  of  wood,  but 
nothing  to  be  got  for  sustenance.  We  passed  this 
night  as  we  had  frequently  done,  under  a  tree  ;  but 
what  we  suffered  at  this  time  is  not  easy  to  be  express- 
ed. I  had  been  three  days  at  the  oar,  without  any 
kind  of  nourishment  except  the  wretched  root  above 
mentioned.  I  had  no  shirt,  for  ii  had  rotted  off  by 
bits.  All  my  clothes  consisted  of  a  short  grieko 
(something  like  a  bear-skin,)  a  piece  of  red  cloth  which 
had  once  been  a  waistcoat,  and  a  ragged  pair  o* 
trowsers,  without  shoes  or  stocking?  ' 


69 


Note  2.  A  Briton  and  afriehd. 

Don  Patricio  Gedd,  a  Scotch  physician  in  one  of  the 
Spanish  settlements,  hospitably  relieved  Byron  and 
his  wretched  associates,  of  which  the  Commodore 
speaks  in  the  warmest  terms  of  gratitude. 

Note  3 .   Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heav'n  another  siring. 

The  seven  string's  of  Apollo's  harp  were  the  sym- 
bolical representation  of  the  seven  planets.  Herschel, 
by  discovering-  an  eighth,  might  be  said  to  add  another 
string  to  the  instrument. 

Note  4.   The  Swedish  sage. 
Linnaeus. 

Note.  5.    Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxian  murmurs  jloiv. 
"Loxias  is  a  name  frequently  given  to  Apollo   by 
Greek  writers  :  it  is  met  with  more  than  once  in  the 
Chcephorae  of  JEschylus. 

Note  6.   Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command, 

Like  HoreVs  rocks  beneath  the  prophefs  hand. 
See  Exodus,  chap.  xvii.  3,  5,  6. 

Note"    Wild  Obi fiies. 

Among  the  negroes  of  the  West  Indies,  Obi,  or 
Obiah,  is  the  name  of  a  magical  power,  which  is  be- 
lieved by  them  to  affect  the  object  of  its  malignity 
with  dismal  calamities.     Such  a  belief  must  undoubt- 


7U 


edly  have  been  deduced  from  the  superstitious  my- 
thology of  their  kinsmen  on  the  coast  of  Africa.  I 
have  therefore  personified  Obi  as  the  evil  spirit  of  the 
African,  although  the  history  of  the  African  tribes 
mentions  the  evil  spirits  of  their  religious  creed  by 
a  different  appellation. 

Note  8.   Sibir's  dreary  mines. 

Mr.  Bell  of  Antermony,  in  his  Travels  through  Sibe- 
ria, informs  us  that  the  name  of  the  country  is  univer- 
sally pronounced  Sibir  by  the  Russians. 

Note  9.  Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man  ! 

The  history  of  the  partition  of  Poland,  of  the  mas- 
sacre in  the  suburbs  of  Warsaw,  and  on  the  bridge  of 
Prague,  the  triumphant  entry  of  Suwarrow  into  the  Po- 
lish capital,  and  the  insult  offered  to  human  nature,  by 
the  blasphemous  thanks  offered  up  to  Heaven,  for  vic- 
tories obtained  over  men  fighting  in  the  sacred  cause 
of  liberty,  by  murderers  and  oppressors,  are  events 
generally  known. 

Note  10.  The  shrill  horn  blew. 

The  negroes  in  the  West  Indies  are  summoned  to 
their  morning  work  by  a  shell  or  a  horn. 

Note  11    How  long  -was  Timur's.  iron  sceptre  s-way'd? 
To  elucidate  this  passage,  I  shall  subjoin  a  quotation 


71 


from  the  Preface  to  Letters  from  a  Hindoo  Rajah,  a 
work  of  elegance  and  celebrity. 

"  The  imposter  of  Mecca  had  established,  as  one  of 
the  principles  of  his  doctrine,  the  merit  of  extending- 
it,  either  by  persuasion,  or  the  sword,  to  all  parts  of 
the  earth.  How  steadily  this  injunction  was  adhered  to 
by  his  followers,  and  with  what  success  it  was  pursued, 
is  well  known  to  all  who  are  in  the  least  conversant  in 
history. 

"  The  same  overwhelming-  torrent,  which  had  inun- 
dated the  greater  part  of  Africa,  burst  its  way  into  th» 
very  heart  of  Europe,  and  covered  many  kingdoms  of 
Asia  with  unbounded  desolation,  directed  its  baleful 
course  to  the  flourishing  provinces  of  Hindostan.  Here 
these  fierce  and  hardy  adventurers,  whose  only  im- 
provement  had  been  in  the  science  of  destruction,  who 
added  the  fury  of  fanaticism  to  the  ravages  of  war, 
found  the  great  end  of  their  conquests  opposed,  by  ob- 
jects which  neither  the  ardour  of  their  persevering 
zeal,  nor  savage  barbarity  could  surmouut.  Multitudes 
were  sacrificed  by  the  cruel  hand  of  religious  persecu- 
tion, and  whole  countries  were  deluged  in  blood,  in  the 
vain  hope,  that  by  the  destruction  of  a  part,  the  re- 
mainder might  be  persuaded,  or  terrified,  into  the  pro- 
fession of  Mahomedism  ;  but  all  these  sanguinary  ef- 
forts were  ineffectual ;  and  at  length,  being  fully  con- 
vinced, that  though  they  might  extirpate,  they  could 
never  hope  to  convert  any  number  of  the  Hindoos,  they 
relinquished  the  impracticable  idea,  with  which  they 

# 


72 


had  entered  upon  their  career  of  conquest,  and  con- 
tented themselves  with  the  acquirement  of  the  civil 
dominion  and  almost  universal  empire  of  Hindostan." 
— Letters  from  a  Hindoo  Rajah,  by  Eliza  Hamilton. 

Note  12.     And  braved  the  stormy  spirit  of  the  Cape. 

See  the  description  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  trans- 
lated from  Camoens,  by  Mickle. 

Xote  13.   While  famish* d  nations  died  along  the  shore. 

The  following  account  of  British  conduct,  and  its 
consequences,  in  Bengal,  will  afford  a  sufficient  idea. 
of  the  fact  alluded  to  in  this  passage.  After  describ- 
ing the  monopoly  of  salt,  betal  nut,  and  tobacco,  the 
historian  proceeds  thus  : — "  Money  in  this  current 
came  but  by  drops  ;  it  could  not  quench  the  thirst  of 
those  who  waited  in  India  to  receive  it.  An  expedi- 
ent, such  as  it  was,  remained  to  quicken  its  pace. 
The  natives  could  live  with  little  salt,  but  could  not 
want  food.  Some  of  the  agents  saw  themselves  well 
situated  for  collecting  the  rice  into  stores  ;  they  did 
so.  They  knew  the  Gentoos  would  rather  die  than 
violate  the  principles  of  their  religion  by  eating  flesh. 
The  alternative  would  therefore  be  between  giving 
what  they  had,  or  dying.  The  inhabitants  sunk  ; — 
they  that  cultivated  the  land,  and  saw  the  harvest  at 
the  disposal  of  others,  planted  in  doubt — scarcity  en- 
sued. Then  the  monopoly  was  easier  managed — 
sickness  ensued.     Jn  some  districts  the  languid  living 


73 


left  the  bodies  of  their  numerous  dead  unburied." — 
Short  History  of  the  English  Transactions  m  the  East- 
Indies,  p.  145. 

Note  14.    Nine  times  hath  Brama's  -wheels  of  lightening 
hurl'd 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  prostrate  -world  f 

Among  the  sublime  fictions  of  the  Hindoo  mytholo- 
gy, it  is  one  article  of  belief,  that  the  Deity  Brama  has 
descended  nine  times  upon  the  world  in  various  forms, 
and  that  he  is  yet  to  appear  a  tenth  time,  in  the  figure 
of  a  warrior  upon  a  white  horse,  to  cut  off  all  incor- 
rigible offenders.  Avatar  is  the  word  used  to  express 
his  descent. 

Note  15.    And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  snbli?ne. 

Camdeo  is  the  God  of  Love  in  the  mythology  of  the 
Hindoos.  Ganesa  and  Seriswattee  correspond  to  the 
Pagan  deities  Janus  and  Minerva. 


T4, 


PART  II. 


Note  1.  The  noon  of  Manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  ! 
Sacred  to  Venus  is  the  myrtle  shade. — Dry  den. 

Note  2.     Thy  i*oe3,  Jlrion  / 

Falconer  in  his  poem  The  Shipwreck  speaks  of  him- 
self by  the  name  of  Arion. — See  Falconer's  Shipwreck, 
Oanto  III. 

Note  3.     The  robber  Moor. 

See  Schiller's  tragedy  of  the  Robbers,  scene  v. 

Note  4.   What  millions  died  that  Ccesar  might  be  great. 

The  carnage  occasioned  by  the  wars  of  Julius  Caesar 
has  been  usually  estimated  at  two  millions  of  men. 

Note  5.    Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thotisands  bore, 
March* d  by  their  Charles  to  Dneiper*s  sicampy 
nhore. 
In  this  extremity  (says  the  biographer  of  Charles 
XII.  of  Sweden,  speaking  of  his  military  exploits  be- 
fore the  battle  of  Pultowa,)  the  memorable  winter  of 
1709,  which  was  still  more  remarkable  in  that  part  of 
Europe  than  in   France,  destroyed   numbers   of  his 
troops  ;    for  Charles  resolved  to  brave  the  seasons  as 


75 


lie  had  done  his  enemies,  and  ventured  tojnake  long- 
marches  during  this  mortal  cold.  It  was  in  one  of 
these  marches  that  two  thousand  men  fell  clown  dead 
with  cold  before  his  eyes. 

Note  6.  As  on  lona's  height. 

The  natives  of  the  island  of  Iona  have  an  opinion, 
that  on  certain  evenings  every  year  the  tutelary  saint 
Columbia  is  seen  on  the  top  of  the  church  spires  count- 
ing the  surrounding  islands,  to  see  that  they  have  not 
been  sunk  by  the  power  of  witchcraft. 

Note  7.     And  part,  like  Ajut, — never  to  return  ! 

See  the  history  of  Ajut  and  Anningait  in  the  Ram- 
bler. 


o'connor's  child. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDIXb 


o'connor's  child, 


OR, 

THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING. 


wH  once  the  harp  of  Innisfail* 

"Was  strung-  full  high  to  notes  of  gladness 

But  yet  it  often  told  a  tale 

Of  more-prevailing-  sadness. 

Sad  was  the  note,  and  wild  its  fall, 

As  winds  that  moan  at  night  forlorn 

Along-  the  isles  of  Fion-Gael, 

When  for  O'Connor's  child  to  mourn, 

The  harper  told,  how  lone,  how  far 

From  any  mansion's  twinkling  star, 

From  any  path  of  social  men, 

Or  voice,  but  from  the  fox's  den, 

*  The  ancient  name  of  Ireland. 


The  Lady  in  the  desert  dwelt, 
And  yet  no  wrong's,  no  fear  she  felt : 
Say,  why  should  dwell  in  place  so  wild 
The  lovely  pale  O'Connor's  child  ? 

II. 

Sweet  lady  !  she  no  more  inspires 

Green  Erin's  hearts  with  beauty's  pow'r, 

As  in  the  palace  of  her  sires 

She  bloom'd  a  peerless  flow'r. 

Gone  from  her  hand  and  bosom,  gone, 

The  regal  broche,  the  jewell'd  ring-, 

That  o'er  her  dazzling-  whiteuess  shone 

Like  dews  on  lilies  of  the  spring-. 

Yet  why,  thoug-h  fall'n  her  brother's  kerne,* 

Beneath  De  Bourgo's  battle  stern, 

While  yet  in  Leinster  unexplor'd, 

Her  friends  survive  the  English  sword  j 

Why  lingers  she  from  Erin's  host, 

So  far  on  Gal  way's  shipwreck'd  coast ; 

Why  wanders  she  a  huntress  wild — 

The  lovely  pale  O'Connor's  child  ? 

*  Kerne,  the  ancient  Irish  foot  soldieiy. 


gl 


III. 

And  fix'd  on  empty  space,  why  burn 
Her  eyes  with  momentary  wiluness  ; 
And  wherefore  do  they  then  return 
To  more  than  woman's  mildness  ? 
Dishevell'd  are  her  raven  locks, 
On  Connocht  Moran's  name  she  calls  ; 
And  oft  amidst  the  lonely  rocks 
She  sing-s  sweet  madrigals. 
Plac'd  in  the  foxglove  and  the  moss, 
Behold  a  parted  warrior's  cross  ! 
That  is  the  spot  where,  evermore, 
The  lady,  at  her  shieling*  door, 
Enjoys  that  in  communion  sweet, 
The  living  and  the  dead  can  meet 
For  lo  !  to  love-lorn  fantasy, 
The  hero  of  her  heart  is  nigh, 

IV. 

Bright  as  the  bow  that  spans  the  storm, 
In  Erin's  yellow  vesture  clad, 
A  son  of  light — a  lovely  form, 
He  comes  and  makes  her  glad  : 
*  Rude  hut.  or  cabin 


32 


Now  on  the  grass -green  turf  he  sits, 
His  tassell'd  horn  beside  him  laid ; 
Now  o'er  the  hills  in  chase  he  flits, 
The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade  ! 
Sweet  mourner  !  those  are  shadows  vain, 
That  cross  the  twilight  of  her  brain  ; 
Yet  she  will  tell  you,  she  is  blest, 
Of  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  possess'd, 
More  richly  than  in  Aghrim's  bow'r, 
When  bards  high  prais'd  her  beauty's  pow'r, 
And  kneeling  pages  offer'd  up 
The  morat*  in  a  golden  cup. 

V. 

'  A  hero's  bride  !  this  desert  bow'r, 
It  ill  befits  thy  gentle  breeding  : 
And  wherefore  dost  thou  love  this  flow'r 
To  call — My  love  lies  bleeding  ?' 

"  This  purple  flow'r  my  tears  have  nurs'd  ; 
A  hero's  blood  supplied  its  bloom  : 
I  love  it,  for  it  was  the  first 
That  grew  on  Connocht  Moran's  tomb. 

*  A  drink  made  of  the  juice  of  mulberry  mixed  with 
honey. 


83 


Oh  !  hearken,  stranger,  to  my  voice  ! 
This  desert  mansion  is  my  choice  ; 
And  blest,  though  fatal,  be  the  star 
That  led  me  to  its  wilds  afar  : 
For  here  these  pathless  mountains  free 
Gave  shelter  to  my  love  and  me  ; 
And  every  rock  and  every  stone 
Bare  witness  that  he  was  my  own. 

VI. 

"  O'Connor's  child,  I  was  the  bud 
Of  Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory  ; 
But  woe  to  them  that  wrapt  in  blood 
The  tissue  of  my  story  ! 
Still  as  I  clasp  my  burning  brain, 
A  death-scene  rushes  on  my  sight ; 
It  rises  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
The  bloody  feud, — the  fatal  night, 
When  chafiing  Connocht  Moran's  scorn; 
They  call'd  my  hero  basely  born  ; 
And  bade  him  choose  a  meaner  bride 
Than  from  O'Connor's  house  of  pride. 


84 


Their  tribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree, 
Was  sung  in  Tara's  psaltery  ;* 
Witness  their  Eath's  victorious  brandy 
And  Cathal  of  the  bloody  hand, — 
Glory  (they  said)  and  power  and  honour 
Were  in  the  mansion  of  O'Connor; 
But  he,  my  lov'd  one,  bore  in  field 
A  meaner  crest  upon  his  shield. 

VII. 

"  Ah,  brothers  !  what  did  it  avail, 
That  fiercely  and  triumphantly 
Ve  fought  the  English  of  the  pale 
And  stemm'd  De  Bourgo's  chivalry  r 
And  what  was  it  to  love  and  me, 
That  barons  by  your  standard  rode  .• 
Or  beal-firest  for  your  jubilee, 
Upon  an  hundred  mountains  glow'd 

*  The  ps:i!ter  of  Tara  was  the  great  national  I  - 
the  ain.-iuj;t  Irish. 

j"  Vide  the  note  upon  the  victories  of  the  house  of  0' 
Connor. 

*  Fires  lighten"  on  May -day  on  the  hill  tops  by  thr  Irisl 

the  note  on  stanza  VII. 


85 


"What  though  the  lords  of  tower  and  dome 
From  Shannon  to  the  North-sea  foam, — 
Thought  ye  your  iron  hands  of  pride 
Could  break  the  knot  that  love  had  tied  ? 
No  : — let  the  eagle  change  his  plume, 
The  leaf  its  hue,  the  flow'r  its  bloom  \ 
But  ties  around  this  heart  were  spun, 
That  could  not,  would  not,  be  undone  ! 

VIII. 

"  At  bleating  of  the  wild-watch  fold 
Thus  sang  my  love — *  Oh  come  with  me  : 
Our  bark  is  oh  the  lake  behold  : 
Our  steeds  are  fasten'd  to  the  tree. 
Come  far  from  Castle-Connor's  clans — 
Come  with  thy  belted  forestere, 
And  I,  beside  the  lake  of  swans, 
Shall  hunt  for  thee  the  fallow  deer  ; 
And  build  thy  hut  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild  fowl,  and  the  honey-comb  ; 
And  berries  from  the  wood  provide, 
And  play  my  clarshech*  by  thy  side. 

*  The  harp. 


S6 


iThen  come,  my  love  !'— How  could  I  stay  ! 
Our  nimble  stag-hounds  track'd  the  way, 
And  I  pursued  by  moonless  skies. 
The  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes. 

IX. 

"  And  fast  and  far,  before  the  star 
Of  day-spring  rush'd  we  through  the  glade. 
And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  bawn* 
Of  Castle-Connor  fade. 
Sweet  was  to  us  the  hermitage 
Of  this  unplough'd,  untrodden  shore  : 
Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage, 
For  man's  neglect  we  lov'd  it  more.  i 

And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 
To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear 
While  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress, 
Would  sing  to  hiin  in  happiness. 
But  oh,  that  midnight  of  despair  ! 
When  I  was  doom'd  to  rend  my  hair  : 
The  night,  to  me  of  shrieking  sorrow 
The  night,  to  him  that  had  no  morrow  - 

*  Ancient  f 


X. 

"When  all  was  hush'd  at  even  tide, 
I  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle : 
Be  hush'd  !  my  Connocht  Moran  cried, 
fTis  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle. 
Alas  !  'twas  not  the  eyrie's  sound, 
Their  bloody  bands  had  track'd  us  out ; 
Up-list'ning  starts  our  couchant  hound — 
And  hark  !   again,  that  nearer  shout 
Brings  faster  on  the  murderers. 
Spare — spare  him — Brazil — Desmond  fierce  ? 
In  vain — no  voice  the  adder  ch?.rms  ; 
Their  weapons  cross'd  my  sheltering  arms  i 
Another's  sword  has  laid  him  low — 
Another's  and  another's  ; 
And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow — 
Ah  nre  !  it  was  a  brother's  ! 
Yes,  when  his  moanings  died  away, 
Their  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 
And  o'er  his  burial  turf  they  trod, 
And  I  beheld— Oh  God  !  Oh  God ! 
His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod  ! 


88 


XI. 

"  Warm  in  his  death-wounds  sepulchred, 
Alas  !  my  warrior's  spirit  brave, 
Nor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla*  heard, 
Lamenting  sooth  his  grave. 
Dragg'd  to  their  hated  mansion  back* 
How  long  in  thraldom's  grasp  I  lay, 
I  know  not,  for  my  soul  was  black, 
And  knew  no  change  of  night  or  day. 
One  night  of  horror  round  me  grew  ; 
Or  if  I  saw,  or  felt,  or  knew, 
'Twas  but  when  those  grim  visages, 
The  angry  brothers  of  my  race, 
Glared  on  each  eye -ball's  aching  throb, 
And  check'd  my  bosom's  pow'r  to  sob  ; 
Or  when  my  heart  with  pulses  drear, 
Beat  like  a  death-watch  to  my  ear. 

XII. 

"  But  Heav'n,  at  last,  my  soul's  eclipse 
Did  with  a  vision  bright  inspire  : 
1  woke,  and  felt  upon  my  lips 
A  prophetess's  fire. 

1  The  Irish  lamentation  for  the  dead 


39 


Thrice  in  the  east  a  war-drum  beat, 
I  heard  the  Saxon's  trumpet  sound, 
And  rang'd  as  to  the  judgment  seat 
My  guilty,  trembling  brothers  round. 
Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came 
For  now  De  Bourgo's  sword  and  flame 
Had  ravag'd  Ulster's  boundaries, 
And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 
The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 
Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay  : 
That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look, 
\s  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 
I  gave, — that  every  bosom  shook 
Beneath  its  iron  mail, 

XIII. 
"  And  go !   I  cried,  the  combat  seek, 
Ye  hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek, 
Go ! — and  return  no  more  ! 
For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 
Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 
8* 


90 


The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 
Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unrolled. 
Oh  stranger  !  by  my  country's  loss  ! 
And  by  my  love  !   and  by  the  cross  ! 
I  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  sever'd  nature's  yoke  j 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood, 
And  fir'd  me  with  the  wrathful  mood ; 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  giv'n, 
To  speak  the  malison  of  heav'n. 

XIV. 

"  They  would  have  cross'd  themselves  all  mute, 
They  would  have  pray'd  to  burst  the  spell ; 
But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot 
Each  hand  down  pow'rless  fell, 
And  go  to  Athenree!*  I  cried, 
High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride  ! 
But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls 
The  weight  of  blood  is  en  your  souls  ! 
Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 
Shall  float  as  high  as  mountain  fern  ! 

*  A',hunrce,  the  Lattle  fought  in  1314,  which  decided  the 
fate  ofTreUitir! 


9\ 


Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know  ! 
The  nettles  on  your  hearth  shall  grow  ! 
Dead  as  the  green  oblivious  flood, 
That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blood ! 
Away !  away  to  Athunree  ! 
Where  downward  when  the  sun  shall  fall 
The  raven's  wing  shall  be  your  pall ; 
And  not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 
The  vizor  from  your  dying  face  ! 

XV. 

u  A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome 
Suspended  till  my  curse  was  giv'n, 
Soon  as  it  pass'd  these  lips  of  foam 
Peal'd  in  the  blood-red  heav'n. 
Dire  was  the  look  that  o'er  their  backs 
The  angry  parting  brothers  threw ; 
But  now,  behold  !  like  cataracts, 
Come  down  the  hills  in  view 
O'Connor's  plumed  partizans, 
Thrice  ten  Innisfallian  clans 


92 


Were  marching  to  their  doom  : 

A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  toss'd, 

A  flash  of  lightning-  o'er  them  cross'd. 

And  all  again  was  gloom  ; 

But  once  again  in  hcav'n  the  hands 

Of  thunder  spirits  clapt  their  hands. 

XVI. 

"  Stranger !  I  fled  the  home  of  grief, 
At  Connocht  Moron's  tomb  to  fall ; 
I  found  the  helmet  of  my  chief, 
His  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wall ; 
And  took  it  down,  and  vosv'd  to  rove 
This  desert  place  a  huntress  bold  ; 
Xor  would  I  change  my  buried  love 
For  any  heart  of  living  mould. 
No  !  for  I  am  a  hero's  child, 
I'll  hunt  my  quarry  in  the  wild  ; 
And  still  my  home  this  mansion  make, 
Of  all  unheeded  and  unheeding, 
And  cherish,  for  my  warrior's  sake, 
The  flower  of  love  lies  bleedine." 


NOTES 


O'CONNORS  CHILD, 


Verse  2.  1.  9. 
Kerne,  the  plural  of  Kern,  an  Irish  foot  soldier. 
In  this  sense  the  word  is  used  by  Shakspeare.  Gains- 
ford  in  his  Glory's  of  England,  says,  "  They  (the 
Irish)  are  desperate  in  revenge,  and  their  kerne 
think  no  man  dead  until  his  head  be  off? 

Terse  4.  1.  2. 
In  Erin's  yellow  vesture  clad. 
Yellow  dyed  from  saffron,  was  the  favourite  col- 
our of  the  ancient  Irish,  as  it  was  among  the  Belgic 
Gauls  ;  a  circumstance  which  favours  the  supposi- 
tion of  those  who  deduce  the  origin  of  the  former 
from  the  latter  people.  The  Irish  chieftains  who 
came  to  treat  with  queen  Elizabeth's  lord  lieutenant, 
appeared  as  we  are  told  by  Sir  John  Davie s,  in  s^f 
fron  coloured  uniform. 


94 


Verse  6.  1.  13  and  14\ 

Their  tribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree^ 
Was  sung  in  Tara*  s  psaltery. 

The  pride  of  the  Irish  in  ancestry  was  so  great, 
that  one  of  the  O'Xeals  being- told  that  Barret  of 
Castlemone  had  been  there  only  400years,he  replied 
— that  he  hated  the  clown  as  if  he  had  come  there 
but  yesterday. 

Tara  was  the  place  of  assemblage  and  feasting"  of 
the  petty  princes  of  Ireland.  Very  splendid  and 
fabulous  descriptions  are  given  by  the  Irish  histori- 
ans of  the  pomp  and  luxury  of  those  meetings.  The 
psaltery  of  Tara  was  the  grand  national  register  of 
Ireland.  The  grand  epoch  of  political  eminence  in 
the  early  history  of  the  Irish,  is  the  reign  of  their 
great  and  favourite  monarch  Ollam  Fodlah,  who 
reigned,  according  to  Keating,  about  950  years  be- 
fore the  Christian  era.  Under  him  was  instituted 
the  great  Fes  at  Tara,  which  it  is  pretended  was  a 
triennial  convention  of  the  states,  or  a  parliament ; 
the  members  of  which  were  the  Druids,  and  other 
learned  men,  who  represented  the  people  in  that 
assembly.  Very  minute  accounts  are  given  by  Irish 
annalists  of  the  magnificence  and  order  of  these  en- 
tertainments ;  from  which,  if  credible,  we  might 
collect  the  earliest  traces  of  heraldry  that  occur  in 
history.  To  preserve  order  and  regularity  in  the 
srreat  number  and  variety  of  the  members  who  met 


95 


on  such  occasions,  the  Irish  historians  inform  us 
that  when  the  banquet  was  ready  to  be  served  up, 
the  shiekl-bearers  of  the  princes, and  other  members 
of  the  convention,  delivered  in  their  shields  and  tar- 
gets, which  were  readily  distinguished  by  the  coats 
of  arms  emblazoned  upon  them.  These  were  ar- 
ranged by  the  grand  marshal  and  principal  herald, 
and  hung  upon  the  walls  on  the  right  side  of  the 
table ;  and  upon  entering  the  apartments,  each 
member  took  his  seat  under  his  respective  shield 
or  target,  without  the  slightest  disturbance.  The 
concluding  days  of  the  meeting,  it  is  allowed  by  the 
Irish  antiquarians,  were  spent  in  very  free  excess  of 
conviviality  ;  but  the  first  six,  they  say,  were  devo- 
ted to  the  examination  and  settlement  of  the  annals 
of  the  kingdom.  These  were  publickly  rehearsed. 
"When  they  had  passed  the  approbation  of  the 
assembly,  they  were  transcribed  into  the  authentic 
chronicles  of  the  nation,  which  was  called  the  Reg- 
ister, or  Psalter  of  Tara. 

Col.  Valency  gives  a  translation  of  an  old  Irish 
fragment,  found  in  Trinity  college,  Dublin,  in  which 
the  palace  of  the  above  assembly  is  thus  described, 
as  it  existed  in  the  reign  of  Cormac 

"In  the  reign  of  Coi-mac,  the  Palace  of  Tara  was 
was  nine  hundred  feet  square  ;  the  diameter  of  the 
surrounding  rath,  seven  dice  or  casts  of  a  dart ;  it 
contained  one  hundred  and  fifty  apartments  ;  one 
bttndred  and  fifty  dormitories,  or  sleeping  rooms  for 


96 


guards,  and  sixty  men  in  each  :  the  height  was 
twenty-seven  cubits  ;  there  were  one  hundred  and 
fifty  common  drinking-  horns,  twelve  doors,  and  one 
thousand  guests  daily,  besides  princes,  orators  and 
men  of  science,  engravers  of  gold  and  silver,  carv- 
ers, modelers,  and  nobles.  The  Irish  description 
of  the  banqueting-hall  is  thus  translated  :  twelve 
stalls  or  divisions  in  each  wing ;  sixteen  attendants 
on  each  side,  and  two  to  each  table  ;  one  hundred 
guests  in  all." 

Verse  7.  1.3. 
Ye  fought  the  English  of  the  pale. 
The  English  pale  generally  meant  Louth  in  Ulster, 
and  Meath,  Dublin,  and  Kildare  in  Leinster. — Mob 
i'neuux  History  of  Ireland.   & 

Verse  7-  I.  4- 
And  stemm'd  Ds  Botirgo's  chivalry. 
The  house  of  O'Connor  had  a  right  to  boast  oi 
their  victories  over  the  English  It  was  a  chief  of 
the  O'Connor  race  who  gave  a  check  to  the  English 
Champion,  De  Courcey,  so  famous  for  his  personal 
strength,  and  iov  cleaving  a  hemlet  at  one  blow  of 
his  sword,  in  the  presence  of  the  kings  of  France 
and  England,  when  the  French  champion  declined 
the  combat  with  him.  Though  ultimately  conquer- 
ed by  the  English  under  De  Bottrgo,  the  O'Connors 
had   also   humbled   the  pride    of  that  name  on  a 


97 


r.cuiorable  occasion  :  viz.  when  Walter  De  Bourgtb 
an  ancestor  of  that  De  Bourgo  who  wo/,  the  battle 
of  Athunree,  had  become  so  insolent  as  to  make 
excessive  demands  upon  the  territories  of  Con- 
naught,  and  to  bid  defiance  to  all  the  rights  and 
properties  reserved  by  the  Irish  chiefs,  Aelh  O'- 
Connor, a  near  descendant  of  the  famous  Cathal, 
surnamed  of  the  Bloody  Hand,  rose  against  the 
usurper,  and  defeated  the  English  so  severely,  that 
'lieir  general  died  of  chagrin  after  the  battle. 

Verse  7.  L  7. 
Or  Beal  fires  for  your  jubilee. 
The  month  of  May  is  to  this  day  called  Mi  Beal 
tiennie,  i.  e.  the  month  of  BeaPs  fire,  in  the  original 
language  of  Ireland.  These  fires  were  lighted  on 
the  summits  of  mountains  (the  Irish  antiquaries  say) 
in  honour  of  the  sun;  and  are  supposed,  by  those 
conjecturing  gentlemen,  to  prove  the  origin  of  the 
Irish  from  some  nation  who  worshipped  Baal  or  Be- 
lus.  Many  hills  in  Ireland  still  retain  the  name  of 
Cnoc  Greine,  i.  e.  the  hill  of  the  sun  ;  and  on  all  are 
to  be  seen  the  ruinr.  of  druidicai  altars. 

Verse  8.  1.  12. 
And  play  my  clcvshech  by  thy  side. 
The  clarshech,  or  harp,  the  principal  musical  iu- 
strument  of  the  Hibernian  bards,  does  not  appear  to 
be  of  Irish  origin,  nor  indigenous  to  any  of  the  Brit- 
9 


'jS 


ish  islands. —  The  Britons  undoubtedly  were  not 
acquainted  with  it  during-  the  residence  of  the 
ltomans  in  their  country,  as  in  all  their  coins,  on 
which  musical  instruments  are  represented,  we  see 
only  the  Roman  lyre,  and  not  the  British  teylin  or 
harp. 

Verse  9.  I.  3. 
And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  ba~vn. 

Daingean  is  a  Celtic  word  expressing-  a  close  fast 
place,  and  afterwards  a  fort.  This  the  English  cal- 
led a  Bawn,  from  the  Teutonic  baiven,  to  construct 
and  secure  with  branches  of  trees.  The  Daingean 
was  the  primitive  Celtic  fortification,  winch  was 
made  by  digging  a  ditch,  throwing  up  a  rampart, 
and  on  the  latter  fixing  stakes,  which  were  interlaced 
with  boughs  of  trees. — An  extempore  defence  used 
by  all  nations,  and  particularly  by  the  Romans. 

v"\ "on  te  fossa  patens 

Objectu  sudiion  coronat  agger. 

In  this  manner  the  first  English  adventurers  se- 
cured their  posts  at  Ferns  and  Idorne.  When  King 
Dennod  entered  Ossory,  he  found  that  Donald  its 
tossarch  had  plashed  apace,  i.  e.  made  large  and 
deep  trenches  with  hedges  upon  them.  Four  hun- 
dred years  afterwards,  the  Irish  had  the  same  mode 
fence.  Within  half  a  mile  of  the  entrance  of 
the  Moiry,   the  English  found  that  pace  by  which 


they  were  to  pass,  being-  naturally  one  of  the  mos' 
difficult  passag-es  in  Ireland,  fortified  with  g-ood  art 
and  admirable  industry.  The  enemy  having-  raised 
from  mountain  to  mountain,  from  wood  to  wood, 
and  from  bog-  to  bog-,  traverses  with  huge  and  high 
flankers  with  great  stones,  mingled  with  turf  and 
staked  down  on  both  sides,  with  palisades  wattled. 
Plashing  from  the  Franco-gallic ptes&erJA  to  entwine, 
and  is  equivalent  to  the  Teutonic  bawen. — Ledwick't 
Antiquities  of  Ireland. 

Verse  13.  1.  16. 
To  speak  the  malison  of  Heaven. 
If  the  wrath  which  I  have  ascribed  to  the  heroine 
of  this  little  piece  should  seem  to  exhibit  her  char- 
acter as  too  unnaturally  stript  of  patriotic  and 
domestic  affections,  I  must  beg-  leave  to  plead  the 
authority  of  Corneille  in  the  representation  of  a  simi- 
lar passion  :  I  allude' to  the  denunciation  of  Camille, 
in  the  tragedy  of  Horace.  When  Horace,  accom- 
panied by  a  soldier  bearing-  the  three  swords  of  the 
Curiatii,  meets  his  sister,  and  invites  her  to  con- 
gratulate him  on  his  victory,  she  expresses  only  her 
grief,  which  he  attributes  at  first  only  to  her  feel- 
ing-s  for  the  loss  of  her  two  brothers  ;  but  when 
she  bursts  forth  into  reproaches  against  him  as  the 
murderer  of  her  lover,  the  last  of  the  Curiatii,  he 
exclaims  : 


100 


'*  O  Ciel,  qui  vit  jamais  une  pareilie  rage, 
Orois  tu  done  que  je  suis  insensible  a  l'outrage 
Que  je  snuffre  en  mon  sang  ce  mortel  deshonneur  : 
Aime,  Aime  cette  mort  qui  fait  notre  bonheur, 
Bt  prefere  du  moins  au  souvenir  d'un  homme 
Ce  que  doit  ta  naissance  aux  interets  de  Rome." 

At  the  mention  of  Rome,  Camille  breaks  out  into 
this  apostrophe : 

"Rome,  I'unique  objet  de  mon  ressentiment ! 
Rome,  a  qui  vient  ton  bras  d'immoler  mon  amant '. 
Rome,  qui  t'a  vu  naitre  et  que  ton  cceur  adore  ! 
Rome  enfin  que  je  hais,  parcequ'elle  t'honore  ! 
Puissent  tous  ses  voisins,  ensemble  conjures, 
Sapper  ses  fondemens  encore  mal  assures  ; 
Et,  si  ce  n'est  assez  de  toute  PItalie, 
Que  l'Orient,  contre  elle,  a  l'Occident  s'allie  9 
Que  cent  peuples  unis,  des  bouts  de  l'Univers 
Passent,  pour  la  detruire,  et  les  monts  et  les  mers  ; 
Qu'elle-meme  sur  soi  renverse  ses  murailles, 
Et  dc  ses  propres  mains  dechire  ses  entrailles  ; 
Que  le  courroux  du  Ciel,  allume  par  mes  voeux, 
Fasse  pleuvoir  sur  elle  un  deluge  de  feux  ! 
Puissai-jede  mes  yeux  y  voir  tomber  ce  foudre, 
Voir  ses  maisons  en  cendre,  et  tes  lauriers  en  poudre* 
Voir  le  dernier  Romain  a  son  dernier  soupir, 
Moi  seulc  en  etre  cause,  et  mourir  de  plaisir  !'•' 


101 


Verse  14.  1.  5. 
And  go  Athunree,  I  cried— 
Jn  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Second,  the  Irish  pre- 
sented to  Pope  John  the  Twenty-second  a  memorial 
of  their  sufferings  under  the  English,  of  which  the 
language  exhibits  all  the  strength  of  despair. — "  Ev- 
er since  the  English  (say  they)  first  appeared  upon 
our  coasts,  they  entered  our  territories  under  a  cer- 
tain specious  pretence  of  charity,  and  external  hyp- 
ocritical show  of  religion,  endeavouring  at  the  same 
time,  by  every  artifice  malice  could  suggest,to  extir- 
pate us  root  and  brand),  and  without  any  other 
right  than  that  of  the  strongest,  they  have  so  far 
succeeded  by  base  fraudulence  and  cunning,  that 
they  have  forced  us  to  quit  our  fair  and  ample  habi- 
tations and  inheritances,  and  to  take  refuge  like 
wild  beasts  in  the  mountains,  the  woods,  and  the 
morasses  of  the  country  ; — nor  even  can  the  caverns 
and  dens  protect  us  against  their  insatiable  avarice. 
They  pursue  us  even  into  these  frightful  abodes  ; 
endeavouring  to  dispossess  us  of  the  wild  uncultiva- 
ted rocks,  and  arrogate  to  themselves  the  propexty 
of  every  place  on  which  we  can  stamp  the  figure 
of  our  feet." 

The  greatest  effort  ever  made  by  the  ancient  Irish 
to  regain  their  native  independence  was  made  at  the 
time  when  they  called  over  the  brother  of  Robert 
Bruce  from  Scotland. — William  de  Bourgo,  brother 
to  the  Earl  of  Ulster,  and  Richard  de  Birmingham 
9* 


10£ 


were  sent  against  the  main  body  of  the  native  insur- 
gents, who  were  headed  rather  than  commanded  by 
Felim  O'Connor. — The  important  battle,  which  de- 
cided the  subjection  of  Ireland,  took  place  on  the 
10th  of  August,  1315.  It  was  the  bloodiest  that  ever 
was  fought  between  the  two  nations,  and  continued 
throughout  the  whole  day,  from  the  rising  to  the 
setting  sun.  The  Irish  fought  with  inferior  disci- 
pline, but  with  great  enthusiasm.  They  lost  ten 
thousand  men,  among  whom  were  twenty-nine 
chiefs  of  Connaught. — Tradition  states  that  after 
this  terrible  day,  the  O'Connor  family,  like  the  Fa- 
bian, were  so  nearly  exterminated,  that  throughout 
all  Connaught  not  one  of  the  name  remained,  except 
Felim's  brother,  who  was  capable  of  bearing  arm's. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


SPECIMENS 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MEDEA. 

Ikhjx?  efe  \tyeev,  xxfcv  rt  c-oqxc 
Tits  7rgGa&i  fcgbTiss  hk  dLV  a./u.*£roi(. 

Medea,  v.  194,  p.  S3,  Glasg.  edit. 

X  ELL  me,  ye  bards,  whose  skill  sublime 
First  charm'd  the  ear  of  youthful  Time, 
With  numbers  wrapt  in  heav'nly  fire ; 
Who  bade  delighted  Echo  swell 
The  trembling-  transports  of  the  lyre, 
The  murmur  of  the  shell, — 
Why  to  the  burst  of  Joy  alone 
Accords  sweet  Music's  soothing-  tone  i 
Why  can  no  bard,  with  magic  strain, 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain  2 
While  varied  tones  obey  your  sweep, 
The  mild,  the  plaintive,  and  the  deep, 


106 

Bends  not  despairing-  Grief  to  hear 
Your  golden  lute,  with  ravish'd  ear  ? 
Oh  !  has  your  sweetest  shell  no  power  to  bind 
The  fiercer  pangs  that  shake  the  mind, 
And  lull  the  wrath,  at  whose  command 
Murder  bares  her  gory  hand  ? 
When  flush'd  with  joy,  the  rosy  throng 
Weave  the  light  dance,  ye  swell  the  song  ! 
Cease,  ye  vain  warblers  !  cease  to  charm 
The  breast  with  other  raptures  warm  ! 
Cease !  till  your  hand  with  magic  strain 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain  ' 


SPEECH  OF  THE   CHORUS 

IN  THE  SAME  TRAGEDY, 

To  dissuade  Medea  from  her  purpose  of  putting  her  chi'. 
dren  to  death,  and  Jiving-  for  protection  to  Athens. 

\J  HAGGARD  queen  !  to  Athens  dost  thou  guide 
Thy  glowing  chariot,  steep'd  in  kindred  gore  ; 

Or  seek  to  hide  thy  damned  parricide 

Where  Peace  and  Mercy  dwell  for  ever  more  ? 

The  land  where  Truth,  pure,  precious,  and  sublime, 
Woos  the  deep  silence  of  sequester'd  bowers, 

And  warriors,  matchless  since  the  first  of  Time, 
Rear  their  bright  banners  o'er  unconquer'd  towers  ' 

"Where  joyous  Youth,  to  Music's  mellow  strain, 
Twines  in  the  dance  with  Nymphs  for  ever  fair. 

While  Spring  eternal,  on  the  lilied  plain, 

Waves  amber  radiance  through  the  fields  of  air ! 


108 


'f  lie  tuneful  Nine  (so  sacred  legends  tell) 
First  wak'd  their  heavenly  lyre  these  scenes  among 

Still  in  your  greenwood  bowers  they  love  to  dwell ; 
Still  in  your  vales  they  swell  the  choral  song ! 

For  there  the  tuneful,  chaste,  Pierian  fair, 
The  guardian  nymphs  of  green  Parnassus,  now 

Sprung  from  Harmonia,  while  her  graceful  hair 
Wav'd  in  bright  auburn  o'er  her  polish'd  brow  T 

ANTISTROPHE  I. 

Where  silent  vales,  and  glades  of  green  array, 
The  murm'ring  wreaths  of  cool  Cephisus  lave, 

There,  as  the  Muse  hath  sung,  at  noon  of  day, 
The  Queen  of  Beauty  bow'd  to  taste  the  wave ; 

And  blest  the  stream,  and  breath'd  across  the  land, 
The  soft  sweet  gale  that  fans  yon  summer  bowers ; 

And  there  the  sister  Loves,  a  smiling  band, 
Crown'd  with  the  fragrant  wreaths  of  rosy  flowers  ! 

"And  go,  (she  cries)  in  yonder  valleys  rove, 
With  Beauty's  torch  the  solemn  scenes  illume ; 

Wake  in  each  eye  the  radiant  light  of  Love, 

Breathe  on  each   cheek  young   Passion's  tender 
bloom  f 


109 


Entwine,  with  myrtle  chains,  your  s.oft  control, 
To  sway  the  hearts  of  Freedom's  darling  kind  1 

With  glowing-  charms  enrapture  Wisdom's  soul, 
And  mould  to  grace  etherial  Virtue's  mind." 

STROPHE  II. 

The  land  where  Heaven's  own  hallow'd  waters  play, 
Where  Friendship  binds  the  generous  and  the  good, 

Say,  shall  it  hail  thee  from  thy  frantic  way, 
Unholy  woman  !  with  thy  hands  embrued 

In  thine  own  children's  gore  ? — oh  !  ere  they  bleed, 
Let  Nature's  voice  thy  ruthless  heart  appal ! 

Pause  at  the  bold,  irrevocable  deed — 

The  mother  strikes — the  guiltless  babes  shall  fall? 

Think  what  remorse  thy  maddening  thoughts  shall 
sting, 

When  dying  pangs  their  gentle  bosoms  tear  ; 
Where  shalt  thou  sink,  when  ling'ring  echoes  ring 

The  screams  of  horror  in  thy  tortur'd  ear  ? 

Xo  !  let  thy  bosom  melt  to  Pity's  cry, — 
Tn  dust  we  kneel— by  sacred  Heaven  implore— - 
10 


no 

O  !  stop  thy  lifted  arm,  ere  yet  they  die, 
Nor  dip  thy  horrid  hands  in  infant  gore  ! 

ANTISTROPHE  II. 

Say,  how  shalt  thou  that  barb'rous  soul  assume, 
Undamp'd  by  horror  at  the  daring-  plan  ? 

Hast  thou  a  heart  to  work  thy  children's  doom  ? 
Or  hands  to  finish  what  thy  wrath  began  ? 

When  o'er  each  babe  you  look  a  last  adieu, 
And  gaze  on  innocence  that  smiles  asleep, 

Shall  no  fond  feeling  beat,  to  nature  true, 

Charm  thee  to  pensive  thought — and  bid  thee  weep 

When  the  young  suppliants  clasp  their  Parent  dear, 
Heave  the  deep  sob,  and  pour  the  artless  prayer, — 

Aye  !  thou  shalt  melt ; — and  many  a  heartshed  tear 
Gush  o'er  the  harden'd  features  of  despair  ! 

Nature  shall  throb  in  ev'ry  tender  string, — 
Thy  trembling  heart  the  ruffian's  task  deny  ; — 

Thy  horror-smitten  hands  afar  shall  fling 

The  blade,  undrench'd  in  blood's  eternal  dye  l. 


11 


CHORUS. 

Hallow'd  Earth  !  with  indignation 
Mark,  oh  mark,  the  murd'rous  deed  ! 

Radiant  eye  of  wide  creation, 
Watch  the  damned  parricide  ! 

Yet,  ere  Colchia's  rugged  daughter 

Perpetrate  the  dire  design, 
And  consign  to  kindred  slaughter 

Children  of  thy  golden  line  ! 

Shall  the  hand,  with  murder  gory, 
Cause  immortal  blood  to  flow  ? 

Sun  of  Heav'n ! — arra\  'd  in  glory  ! 
Rise, — forbid, — avert  the  blow! 

In  the  vales  of  placid  gladness 
Let  no  rueful  maniac  range  ; 

Chase  afar  the  fiend  of  Madness, 
Wrest  the  dagger  from  Revenge ! 

Say,  hast  thou,  with  kind  protection, 
Rear'd  thy  smiling  race  in  vain  ; 

Fost'ring  Nature's  fond  affection, 
Tender  cares,  and  pleasing  pain  I 


US 

Hast  thou,  on  the  troubled  ocean, 
Brav'd  the  tempest  loud  and  strong-, 

Where  the  waves,  in  wild  commotion, 
Roar  Cyanean  rocks  among  ! 

Didst  thou  roam  the  paths  of  danger, 

Hymenean  joys  to  prove  1 
Spare,  O  sanguinary  stranger, 

Pledges  of  thy  sacred  love  ! 

Shall  not  Heaven,  with  indignation, 
'Watch  thee  o'er  the  barb'rous  deed  ! 

Shalt  thou  cleanse,  with  expiation, 
Monstrous,  murd'rous,  parricide  ? 


n: 


LOVE  AND  MADNESS. 

AN  ELEGY. 
WRITTEN  IN    1795, 

JlIARK  !  from  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower* 
The  solemn  bell  has  toll'd  the  midnight  hour  ! 
Rous'd  from  dear  visions  of  distemper'd  sleep, 
Poor  B k  wakes — in  solitude  to  weep  ! 

"Cease,   Mem'ry,  cease    (the  friendless    mourner 
cry'd) 
To  probe  the  bosom  too  severely  tried ! 
Oh !  ever  cease,  my  pensive  thoughts,  to  stray 
Through  the  bright  fields  of  Fortune's  better  day  * 
When  youthful  Hope,  the  music  of  the  mind, 
Tun'd  all  its  charms,  and  E n  was  kind  ! 

*  Warwick  Castle. 
•10* 


114 

"  Yet,  can  1  cease,  while  glows  this  trembling  frame, 
In  sighs  to  speak  thy  melancholy  name  ! 
I  hear  thy  spirit  wail  in  every  storm  ? 
In  midnight  shades  I  view  thy  passing  form  ! 
Pale  as  in  that  sad  hour,  when  doom'd  to  feel, 
Deep  in  thy  perjur'd  heart  the  bloody  steel ! 

"  Demons  of  Vengeance  !  ye  at  whose  command 
I  grasp'd  the  sword  with  more  than  woman's  hand, 
Say  ye,  did  Pity's  tremLling  voice  control, 
Or  horror  damp  the  purpose  of  my  soul  ? 
No  !  my  wild  heart  sat  smiling  o'er  the  plan, 
Till  Hate  fulfill'd  what  baffled  Love  began  ! 

u  Yes  ;  let  the  clay-cold  breast,  that  never  knew 
One  tender  pang  to  generous  Nature  true, 
Half  mingling  pity  with  the  gall  of  scorn, 
Condemn  this  heart  that  bled  in  love  forlorn  ! 

"  And  ye,  proud  fair,  whose  soul  no  gladness  warms. 
Save  Rapture's  homage  to  your  conscious  charms  ! 
Delighted  idols  of  a  gaudy  train  ! 
Ill  can  your  blunter  feelings  guess  the  pain", 


115 


When  the  fond  faithful  heart,  inspir'd  to  prove 
Friendship  renn'd,  the  calm  delight  of  love, 
Feels  all  its  tender  Strings  with  anguish  torn, 
And  bleeds  at  perjur'd  Pride's  inhuman  scorn! 

"  Say,  then,  did  pitying-  Heav'n  condemn  the  deed, 
When  Vengeance  bade  thee,  faithless  lover  !  bleed  I 
Long-  had  I  watch'd  thy  dark  foreboding  brow, 
What  time  thy  bosom  scorn'd  its  dearest  vow  ! 
Sad,  though  I  wept  the  friend,  the  lover  chang'd, 
Still  thy  cold  look  was  scornful  and  estrang'd, 
Till  from  thy  pity,  love,  and  shelter  thrown, 
I  wander'd,  hopeless,  friendless,  and  alone  ! 


First  gave  to  wrath  unlimited  control ! 

Adieu  the  silent  look !  the  streaming  eye  ! 

The  murmur'd  plaint !  the  deep  heart -heaving  sigh  ! 

Long  slumb'ring  Vengeance  wakes  to  better  deeds  ; 

He  shrieks,  he  falls,  the  perjur'd  Lover  bleeds ! 

Now  the  last  laugh  of  agony  is  o'er, 

And  pale  in  blood  he  sleeps,  to  wake  no  more ! 

"  'Tis  done  !  the  flame  of  hate  no  longer  burns  ; 
Nature  relents  ;  but,  ah !  too  late  returns ! 


116 

Why  docs  my  soul  this  gush  of  fondness  feel  I 
Trembling-  and  faint,  I  drop  the  guilty  steel ! 
Cold  on  my  heart  the  hand  of  terror  lies, 
And  shades  of  horror  close  my  languid  eyes  ! — 

"  Oli !  'twas  a  deed  of  Murder's  deepest  grain  ! 

Could  B k's  soul  so  true  to  wrath  remain  r 

A  friend  long  true,  a  once  fond  lover  fell ! — 
Where  Love  was  foster'd,  could  not  Pity  dwell ! 

kC  Unhappy  youth  !   while  yon  pale  crescent  glows, 
To  watcli  on  silent  Nature's  deep  repose, 
Thy  sleepless  spirit,  breathing  from  the  tomb, 
Foretells  my  fate,  and  summons  me  to  come! 
Once  more  I  see  thy  sheeted  spectre  stand, 
Roll  the  dim  eye,  and  wave  the  paly  hand ! 

"  Soon  may  this  fluttering  spark  of  vital  flame 
Forsake  its  languid  melancholy  frame  ! 
Soon  may  these  eyes  their  trembling  lustre  close, 
Welcome  the  dreamless  night  of  long-  repose  ! 
Soon  may  this  woe-worn  spirit  seek  the  bourne  ! 
Where,  luli'd  to  slumber,  Grief  forgets  to  mourn  !" 


117 


THE  WOUNDED  HUSSAR. 


J\.LONE  to  the  banks  of  the  dark-rolling  Danube 
Fair  Adelaide  hied  when  the  battle  was  o'er : 

Oh  whither,  she  cried,  hast  thou  wander'd,  my  lover  j 
Or  here  dost  thou  welter,  and  bleed  on  the  shore  I 

What  voice  did  I  hear  ?  'twas  my  Henry  that  sigh'd  ! 

All  mournful  she  hastew'd,  nor  wander'd  she  far, 
When  bleeding,  and  low,  on  the  heath  she  descried, 

By  the  light  of  the  moon,  her  poor  wounded  Hussar! 

From  his  bosom  that  heav'd,  the  last  torrent  was 
streaming, 

And  pale  was  his  visage,  deep  mark'd  with  a  scar, 
And  dim  was  that  eye,  once  expressively  beaming, 

That  melted  in  love,  that  kindled  in  war  ! 


118 


How  stnit  was  poor  Adelaide's  heart  at  the  sight ! 

How  bitter  she  wept  o'er  the  victim  of  war  ! 
Hast  thou  come,  my  fond  Love,  this  last  sorrowful  night, 

To  cheer  the  lone  heart  of  your  wounded  Hussar  ! 

Thou  shalt  live,  she  replied,  Heav'n's  mercy  relieving- 
Each  anguishing-  wound,  shall  forbid  me  to  mourn  ! 

Ah,  no  !  the  last  pang  in  my  bosom  is  heaving ! 
No  light  of  the  morn  shall  to  Henry  return  ! 

Thou  charmer  of  life,  ever  tender  and  true  : 
Ye  babes  of  my  love  that  await  me  afar  ! — 

His  faltering  tongue  scarce  could  murmur  adieu, 
When  he  sunk  in  her  arms— the  poor  wounded  Hussar : 


119 


GILDEROY. 


X  HE  last,  the  fatal  hour  is  come, 
That  bears  my  love  from  me  ; 

I  hear  the  dead  note  of  the  drum, 
I  mark  the  gallows  tree  ! 

The  bell  has  toll'd  ;  it  shakes  my  heart 
The  trumpet  speaks  thy  name ; 

And  must  my  Gilderoy  depart 
To  bear  a  death  of  shame  ? 

No  bosom  trembles  for  thy  doom  ; 

No  mourner  wipes  a  tear, 
The  gallows'  foot  is  ail  thy  tomb, 

The  sledge  is  all  thy  bier  ! 


120 

OIi,  Gilderoy  !  bethought  we  then 

So  soon,  so  sad,  to  part, 
When  first  in  Roslin's  lovely  glen 

You  triumph'd  o'er  my  heart  ? 

Your  locks  they  glitter'd  to  the  sheen, 
Your  hunter  garb  was  trim  ; 

And  graceful  was  the  ribbon  green 
That  bound  your  manly  limb  ! 

Ah !  little  thought  I  to  deplore 
These  limbs  in  fetters  bound  ; 

Or  hear,  upon  thy  scaffold  floor, 
The  midnight  hammer  sound. 

Ye  cruel,  cruel,  that  combin'd 

The  guiltless  to  pursue  ; 
My  Gilderoy  was  ever  kind, 

lie  could  not  injure  you  ! 

A  long  adieu !  but  where  shall  fly 

Thy  widow  all  forlorn, 
When  every  mean  and  cruel  eye 

Regards  mv  woe  with  scorn 


121 

Yes  !  they  will  mock  thy  widow's  tears. 
And  hate  thine  orphan  boy  ; 

Alas  !  his  infant  beauty  wears 
The  form  of  Gilderoy  ! 

Then  will  I  seek  the  dreary  mound 
That  wraps  thy  mouldering  clay  ; 

And  weep  and  linger  on  the  ground, 
And  sigh  my  heart  away. 


i. 


122 


THE  HARPER. 


wN  the  green  banks  of  Shannon,  when  Sheelah  was 

nigh, 
No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I  : 
No  harp  like  my  own  could  so  cheerfully  play, 
And  wherever  I  went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  at  last  I  was  forc'd  from  my  Sheelah  to  part, 
She  said,  (while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart) 
Oh  !  remember  your  Sheelah  when  far  far  away; 
And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray. 

Poor  dog  !  he  was  faithful  and  kind,  to  be  sure, 
And  he  constantly  lov'd  me,  although  I  was  poor ; 
When  the  sour-looking  folks  sent  me  heartless  away, 
I  had  always  a  friend  in  my  poor  dog  Tray. 


12; 


When  the  road  was  sodark,and  the  night  was  so  cold, 
And  Pat  and  his  dog-  were  grown  weary  and  old, 
How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of  gray, 
And  he  lick'd  me  for  kindness — my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Though  my  wallet  was  scant,  I  remember'd  his  case, 
Nor  refus'd  my  last  crust  to  his  pitiful  face ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter  day, 
And  I  play'd  a  sad  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Where  now  shall  I  go,  poor,  forsaken,  and  blind  ? 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me,  so  faithful  and  kind  ? 
To  my  sweet  native  village,  so  far  far  away, 
I  can  never  more  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray. 


124 


SONG. 


iVlY  mind  is  my  kingdom,  but  if  thou  wiit  deign 
A  queen  there  to  sway  without  measure  ; 

Then  come,  o'er  its  wishes  and  homage  to  reign, 
And  make  it  an  empire  of  pleasure. 

Then  of  thoughts  and  emotions  each  mutinous  crowd, 
That  rebell'd  at  stern  reason  and  duty  ; 

Returning — shall  yield  all  their  loyalty  proud 
To  the  Halcyon  dominion  of  beauty. 


125 


EXILE  OF  ERIN. 


X  HERE  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill : 
For  his  country  he  sigh'd,  when  at  twilight  repairins 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang-  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sad  is  my  fate  !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger, 
The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  <San  flee  ; 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 
A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 
11* 


126 


Never  again,  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 

Where  my  forefathers  liv'd,  shall  I   spend  the  sweet 

hours, 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowers, 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Erin  my  country  !  though  sad  and  forsaken, 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore ; 

But  alas !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more! 

Oh  cruel  fate  !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 

In  a  mansion  of  peace — where  no  perils  can  chase  me? 

Never  again,  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ? 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore  ! 

Where  is  my  cabin-door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood  ? 

Sisters  and  sire  !  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  look'd  on  my  childhood  I 

And  where  is  the  bosom  friend,  dearer  than  all  ? 
Oh !  my  sad  heart !  long  abandon'd  by  pleasure, 
Why  did  it  do*  on  a  fast-fading  treasure  ! 
Tears,  like  the  rain-drop,  may  fall  without  measure  ; 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 


*  • 


127 


Yet  all  its  sad  recollection  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw  : 

Erin  !  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing! 
Land  of  my  forefathers  !  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields — sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean  ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  devotion- 
Erin  mavournin  ! — Erin  go  bragh  !* 


*  Ireland  my  darling— Ireland  for  ever. 


128 


THE  BEECH  TREE'S  PETITION. 


v-Jh  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me, 

Spare,  Woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree. 

Though  shrub  or  flow'ret  never  grow, 

My  wan  unwanning  shade  below, 

Nor  fruits  of  autumn  blossom  born 

My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn, 

Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 

The  ambrosial  treasures  of  the  hive, 

Yet  leave  this  little  spot  to  me, 

Spare,  Woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree. 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  stood 
In  bloomless  fruitless  solitude  ; 
Since  childhood  in  my  rustling  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour, 


129 

Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  paid, 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carv'd  many  a  long  forgotten  name. 
Oh,  by  the  vows  of  gentle  sound 
First  breath'd  upon  the  sacred  ground, 
By  all  that  Love  hath  whisper'd  here, 
Or  beauty  heard  with  ravish'd  ear, 
As  Love's  own  altar  honour  me, 
Spare,  Woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree- 


130 


ODE  TO  WINTER. 


W  HEN  first  the  fiery  mantled  sun 
His  heavenly  race  began  to  run, 
Round  the  earth  and  ocean  blue, 
His  children  four  the  Seasons  flew. 

First,  in  green  apparel  dancing", 

The  young  Spring  smil'd  with  angel  grace ; 
Rosy  Summer  next  advancing, 

Rush'd  into  her  sire's  embrace  : 
Her  bright  hair'd  sire,  who  bade  her  keep 

For  ever  nearest  to  his  smiles, 
On  Calpe's  olive  shaded  steep, 

On  India's  citron-cover'd  isles  : 
More  remote  and  buxom-brown, 

The  Queen  of  vintage  bow'd  before  his  throne 
A  rich  pomegranate  gemm'd  her  crown, 

A  ripe  sheaf  bound  her  zone. 


151 

But  howling-  Winter  fled  afar, 
To  hills  that  prop  the  polar  star, 
And  lores  on  deer-borne  car  to  ride, 
With  barren  darkness  by  his  side. 
Round  the  shore  where  loud  Lofoden 

Whirls  to  death  the  roaring-  whale, 
Round  the  hall  where  Runic  Odin 

Howls  his  war -song  to  the  gale ; 
Save  when  adown  the  ravag'd  globe 
He  travels  on  his  native  storm, 

Deflow'ring  nature's  grassy  robe, 
And  trampling  on  her  faded  form  : — 

Till  light's  returning  lord  assume 
The  shaft  that  drives  him  to  his  polar  field, 

Of  power  to  pierce  his  raven  plume, 
And  crystal  cover'd  shield. 

Oh,  sire  of  storms  !  whose  savage  ear 
The  Lapland  drum  delights  to  hear, 
When  Frenzy  with  her  blood-shot  eye 
Implores  thy  dreadful  deity. 
Archangel !  power  of  desolation  ! 
Fast  descending  as  thou  art, 


132 

Say,  hath  mortal  invocation 

Spells  to  touch  thy  stony  heart  I 
Then  sullen  Winter  hear  my  prayer, 
And  gently  rule  the  ruin'd  year ; 
Nor  chill  the  wand'rer's  bosom  bare, 
Nor  freeze  the  wretch's  falling  tear  ; — 
To  shuddering  want's  unmantled  bed, 
Thy  horror-breathing  agues  cease  to  lead, 
And  gently  on  the  orphan  head 
Of  innocence  descend. — 

But  chiefly  spare,  O  king  of  clouds  ! 
The  sailor  on  his  airy  shrouds  : 
When  wrecks  and  beacons  strew  the  steep. 
And  spectres  walk  along  the  deep. 
Milder  yet  thy  snowy  breezes 

Pour  on  yonder  tented  shores, 
Where  the  Rhine's  broad  billow  freezes, 

Or  the  dark-brown  Danube  roars. 
Oh  winds  of  winter  !  list  ye  there 

To  many  a  deep  and  dying  groan  ; 
Or  start,  ye  demons  of  the  midnight  air, 

At  shrieks  and  thunders  louder  than  vour  own. 


133 

Alas  !  ev'n  your  unhallow'd  breath 
May  spare  the  victim,  fallen  low  ; 

But  man  will  ask  no  truce  to  death,- 
No  bounds  to  human  woe.* 


*  This  ode  was  written  in  Germany,  at  the  close  of  1800, 
before  the  conclusion  of  hostilities. 


12 


134 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 


\JUR  bugles    sang-  true — for   the   night-cloud   had 
lowVd, 

And  the  centinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky  ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowVd, 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain  ; 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track : 

'Twas  autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcom'd  me  back. 


135 


I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  travers'd  so  oft 

In  life's  morning1  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young" ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledg'd  we  the  wine -cup,  and  fondly  I  swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part; 

My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn  : — 
And  fain  was  their  war -broken  soldier  to  stay ; 

But  sorrow  return'd  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away, 


1S6 


THE  TURKISH  LADY. 


A  WAS  the  hour  when  rites  unholy 
Call*d  each  Paynim  voice  to  pray'r, 
And  the  star  that  faded  slowly 
Left  to  dews  the  freshen^  air. 

Day  her  sultry  fires  had  wasted, 
Calm  and  sweet  the  moonlight  rose  j 

Ev'n  a  captive's  spirit  tasted 
Half  oblivion  of  his  woes. 

Then  'twas  from  an  Emir's  palace 
Came  an  eastern  lady  bright : 

She,  in  spite  of  tyrants  jealous, 
Saw  and  lov'd  an  English  knight. 


137 

■  Tell  me,  captive,  why  in  anguish 

■  Foes  have  dragg'd  thee  here  to  dwell, 

1  "Where  poor  Christians  as  they  languish 
'Hear  no  sound  of  sabbath  bell  ?' — 

1  'Twas  on  Transylvania's  Bannat 
1  When  the  crescent  shone  afar, 
•  Like  a  pale  disastrous  planet 

*  O'er  the  purple  tide  of  war — 

1  In  that  day  of  desolation, 

*  Lady,  I  was  captive  made  ; 

'  Bleeding  for  my  Christian  nation 
'By  the  walls  of  high  Belgrade.' 

'  Captive  !  could  the  brightest  jewel 
'  From  my  turban  set  thee  free  ?' — 

:  Lady,  no  ! — the  gift  were  cruel, 
'  Ransom'd,  yet  if  reft  of  thee. 

'  Say,  fair  princess  !  would  it  grieve  thee 
'  Christian  climes  should  we  behold  ?' — 

'  Nay,  bold  knight !  I  would  not  leave  thee 
'  Were  thy  ransom  paid  in  gold  !' 
12* 


138 

'Sow  in  Heav'n's  blue  expansion 
Rose  the  midnight  star  to  view, 

When  to  quit  her  father's  mansion, 
Thrice  she  wept,  and  bade  adieu ! 

*  Fly  we  then,  while  none  discover ! 

*  Tyrant  barks,  in  vain  ye  ride  !' 
Soon  as  Rhodes  the  British  lover 

Clasp'd  his  blooming- Eastern  bride. 


139 


LINES 


Written  at  the  request  of  the  Highland  Society  in  Londmi, 
■when  met  to  commemorate  the  2\st  of  JMarcky  the  dau 
of  victory  in  Egypt. 


1  LEDGE  to  the  much  lov'd  land  that  gave  us  birth ! 

Invincible  romantic  Scotia's  shore ! 
Pledge  to  the  memory  of  her  parted  worth  ! 

And  first,  amidst  the  brave,  remember  Moore  ! 

And  be  it  deem'd  not  wrong  that  name  to  give, 
In  festive  hours,  which  prompts  the  patriot's  sigh ! 

Who  would  not  envy  such  as  Moore  to  live  ? 
And  died  he  not  as  heroes  wish  to  die  ? 

Yes,tho'  too  soon  attaining  glory's  goal, 
To  us  his  bright  career  too  short  was  giv'n  ; 

Yet  in  a  mighty  cause  his  phoenix  soul 
Ho&e  on  the  ftames  of  victory  te  Heav'n* 


140 

How  oft  (if  beats  in  subjugated  Spain 

One  patriot  heart)  in  secret  shall  it  mourn 

For  him  ! — How  oft  on  far  Corunna's  plain 
Shall  British  exiles  weep  upon  his  urn ! 

Peace  to  the  mighty  dead  ! — our  bosom  thanks 
In  sprightlier  strains  the  living-  may  inspire  ! 

Joy  to  the  chiefs  that  lead  old  Scotia's  ranks, 
Of  Roman  garb  and  more  than  Roman  fire  ! 

Triumphant  be  the  thistle  still  unfurl'd, 

Dear  symbol  wild!  on  freedom's  hills  it  grows, 

Where  Fingal  stemm'd  the  tyrants  of  the  world, 
And  Roman  eagles  found  unconquer'd  foes. 

Joy  to  the  band*  this  day  on  Egypt's  coast 
Whose  valour  tam'd  proud  France's  tricolor, 

And  wrench'd  the  banner  from  her  bravest  host, 
Baptiz'd  Invincible  in  Austria's  gore  ! 

Joy  for  the  day  on  red  Vimeira's  strand, 

When  bayonet  to  bayonet  oppos'd, 
First  of  Britannia's  hosts  her  Highland  band 

Gave  but  the  death-shot  once,  and  foremost  clos'd  ! 
*  The  42d  Regiment. 


Hi 


Is  there  a  son  of  generous  England  here 
Or  fervid  Erin  ? — he  with  us  shall  join, 

To  pray  that  in  eternal  union  dear, 
The  rose,  the  shamrock,  and  the  thistle  twine ! 

Types  of  a  race  who  shall  th'  invader  scorn, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  round  their  shore, 

Tvpes  of  a  race  who  shall  to  time  unborn 
Their  country  leave  unconquer'd  as  of  yore ! 


142 

LINES 

Written  on  visiting  a  scene  in  Argyleshire. 

-cxT  the  silence  of  twilight's  contemplative  hour, 

I  have  mus'd  in  a  sorrowful  mood, 
On  the  wind-shaken  weeds  that  embosom  the  bower, 

Where  the  home  of  my  forefathers  stood. 
All  ruin'd  and  wild  is  their  roofless  abode, 

And  lonely  the  dark  raven's  sheltering  tree  ; 
And  travelled  by  few  is  the  grass-covered  road, 
Where  the  hunter  of  deer  and  the  warrior  trode 

To  his  hills  that  encircle  the  sea. 

Yet  wandering,  I  found  on  my  ruinous  walk, 

By  the  dial-stone  aged  and  green, 
One  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk, 

To  mark  where  a  garden  had  been. 
Like  a  brotherless  hermit,  the  last  of  its  race, 

All  wild  in  the  silence  of  Nature,  it  drew, 
From  each  wandering  sun-beam,  a  lonely  embrace ; 
For  the  night-weed  and  thorn  overshadowed  the  place, 

Where  the  flower  of  my  forefathers  grew. 


Sweet  bud  of  the  wilderness  !  emblem  of  all 

That  remains  in  this  desolate  heart ! 
The  fabric  of  bliss  to  its  centre  may  fall ; 

But  patience  shall  never  depart ! 
Though  the  wilds  of  enchantment,    all  vernal    and 
bright, 

In  the  days  of  delusion  by  fancy  combin'd, 
With  the  vanishing1  phantoms  of  love  and  delight, 
Abandon  my  soul  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

And  leave  but  a  desert  behind. 

Be  hushed,  my  dark  spirit !  for  wisdom  condemns 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore  ; 
Be  strong  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore  ! 
Through  the  perils  of  chance,  and  the  scowl  of  disdain. 

May  thy  front  be  unaltered,  thy  courage  elate ! 
Yea !  even  the  name  I  have  worshipped  in  vain 
Shall  awake  not  the  sigh  of  remembrance  again  ; 

To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate. 


